


Ficlets

by sadistically_sweet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Babysitting, Daddy Kink, Diapers, Dummies, M/M, Multi, Nonsexual Ageplay, Some Sex, Spanking, nappies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:03:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 30,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6855817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, I made a post on our conjoined tumblr page, asking for writing prompts, and decided to post some of them here to keep everything all together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awkward sex

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Awkward but hot first time Johnlock sex in your Daddy John 'verse
> 
>  
> 
> **this is *not* my best work, by far...but it made for a good warm-up**

“C-could…” John paused to lick the sweat off his upper lip; “Could you…?”

Sherlock stopped his panting and looked up into John’s eyes, his pupil’s blown wide and dazed, cheeks flushed, and waited.

John opened his mouth again…and still faltered. He couldn’t do it. It was too embarrassing. Which was quite a feat, considering he was on his knees, thrusting into Sherlock’s arse while his lover was folded in half like a lawn chair. Yet _this_ was ‘too embarrassing’. “Sherlock, could… _unnh!_ ” He grunted loudly as Sherlock clenched around his cock. 

“Get _on_ with it, John!” he breathed, rocking his arse impatiently, urging John to move again. 

John snorted; of course His Majesty would be even more demanding now. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered, giving Sherlock’s hips a harsh squeeze before slapping one soft, rounded buttock. 

Sherlock arched his back and hissed, his hands twisting the sheets beneath him, and keened.

John’s lip curled into a leer; that had been a welcome reaction. He did the same to the other side and Sherlock _writhed_ , his mouth hanging open, panting and gasping. 

John found his nerve. “You like that? You like it when Daddy spanks you?” he said, and when Sherlock stopped to gape up at him, goggle-eyed, John smacked him again and thrust himself deep, deeper than he had been, and listened to Sherlock cry out loud. 

He sat still for a moment, chest heaving, and let Sherlock’s hole adjust to the stretching. Sherlock lay still, his breath coming in short, quick little pants while his cocked bobbed against his stomach. He murmured something in between gasps, something that John couldn’t quite catch, and for a moment, John was worried that he might have hurt him. He rubbed his hands along Sherlock’s thighs, and leaned in; “What, love?”

Sherlock slowly turned his head and gazed up at John..

“Again…Daddy.”

 

 

 


	2. Auntie Irene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Hi I'm sorry if I'm too late to join the send you a prompt thing but if you could. Could you write something fluffy with Irene babysitting the boys and ending up falling asleep with them when she tries to put them down for a nap,while Mycroft is out doing business and stuff at the palace. It would be so cute and normally I don't like Johnlock but your John and Sherlock are just too cute to ignore"

“ ‘rene? ‘rene?..’rene?” Sherlock pattered after the woman as she gathered a couple of thick duvets and laid them out on the floor, making a comfortable pallet for her two charges. “…’rene? ‘rene?” He patted her arm to get her attention. 

Irene already knew what the next thing out of his mouth would be, but she humoured him anyway…besides,the way he said her name was adorable. “Yes, darling?”

“Where My’coff?” the little detective asked, for the fourth time. 

“He’s at work, sweetness, remember? That’s why you and Jawn are staying with Auntie ‘Rene for the afternoon.”

“Oh.” Sherlock stood there and chewed on the knuckle of his finger as he pondered this, Gladstone dangling by his tail from the other, and finally nodded when he deemed it an acceptable answer. “Where Jawn?” 

“Jawn is currently hiding behind my curtains, because he thinks that’s going to help him evade a nap.”

The pair of feet sticking out from under the heavy, cream-coloured curtains stomped one foot.

Irene set down two plush pillows next. “Of course, Jawn is more than welcome to skip naptime,” she said sweetly. “…He can spend the next hour scrubbing my kitchen floor, instead.”

A very thunderous-looking little doctor flung back the curtain and stomped across the room towards them, his arms folded over his chest, and plopped down heavily onto the makeshift bed. “I don’ c’ean,” he said crossly. 

“You do at Auntie ‘Rene’s, if that’s what she tells you to do.” Irene knelt down and patted the space next to Jawn. “Come along, ‘Lockheart…lie down.”

Sherlock obediently stooped down and crawled onto the patch of blankets, taking his place next to Jawn. “Why floor?” he asked her, curling up on his side and tucking Gladstone at his neck. 

“You’re a curious little thing.” Irene pressed Jawn’s shoulder until the surly little man flopped backwards and laid down, too. “You're down here because Auntie doesn’t want piddles on her mattresses. Blankets are easier to wash.”

“We don’ do that!” Jawn protested. Irene reached into her pocket and withdrew a green dummy, then pressed it into his mouth and held it there with her thumb. “That’s not what a little umbrella-carrying bird told me, pet.”

The little doctor blushed furiously, but stayed quiet.

After giving the little detective his own matching purple soother, Irene covered her little one’s up and stood to leave. 

Sherlock caught her wrist; “…”rene?”

Irene smiled at him. “Yes, sweetness?”

“Th’tory, p’eathe?” he asked, the nipple in his mouth exaggerating his lisp. 

“Auntie doesn’t know any stories, darling.”

“P’eathe?” he asked again. 

“…P’ease?” Jawn suddenly piped up, from beside him. 

Well, she couldn’t say ‘no’ to those precious little faces, could she?

She sighed; “Alright. Scootch over.” Irene wedged herself between them and sat with her back against the wall, while both boys cuddled in at each side and laid their heads in her lap. She threaded one hand through Sherlock’s curls and rubbed Jawn’s back with the other, and began to tell them the story of the Geoffrey the Giraffe with his awful sweet tooth, and how he met his boyfriend, Freddie the Silver Fox. Before she could get to the best part of the story, where they adopted a pair of sweet little baby goldfish, there came the soft sounds of snoring from her lap. 

Both little one’s were sound asleep. 

Irene started to rise, and suddenly realised quite quickly that, well, perhaps choosing to sit in the middle with her back to the wall might not have been the smartest idea. 

Sherlock murmured at the slight movement and nudged closer, while Jawn reached out to wrap his arm around her waist and squeeze, and nuzzled his cheek against her thigh. 

Irene looked down at them and smiled; the cute little snot’s had set her up. 

And for once, she didn’t mind.


	3. Tickles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Little sherlock cheer up tickled by daddy john? *hides*"

Sherlock sat on the floor; a moody, sullen, folded-up ball of spite, glowering at nothing in particular (especially not at John, who was decidedly _not_ worth his attention right now), and sucking furiously away at the dummy in his mouth. 

“You can stop sulking at any time, you know.”

Sherlock’s only response was to curl into an even tighter ball. 

John sighed to himself as he stirred his mug of tea. Sherlock had been this way all afternoon, ever since they’d gotten home after the…incident…at the park. He tapped the spoon against the rim of his mug, and carried it with him to his chair. “You cannot keep a bee in a jar, love,” he said as he sat down, taking a sip.

That did it. That was the incendiary comment needed. Sherlock whirled around on his backside and glared up at John; “Can _too!”_ he spat.

John raised his eyebrow. “Watch your tone.”

Sherlock huffed and spun back around, facing away from John again. This wasn’t _fair_. 

Oh, God. He was going to be like this all night, now. John rubbed his temple; “Sherlock, keeping a bee in a jar would be cruel.”

Sherlock stiffened and scowled deeper. John was wrong. He knew enough about bees to know how to take care of one.

John switched tactics. “They need to live in a hive, with all of their friends, and their honey…that’s where they’re happiest. Wouldn’t you want all the little bee’s to be happy?”

Well…Sherlock did want all the bees to be happy. Maybe John was onto something. Sherlock turned to face him again, and scooted towards his chair. “…Ca’ we get a hi’be, ‘addy?” he asked, propping his chin on top of John’s knee and peering up at him with big, hopeful eyes.

John laughed; he couldn’t help it. “Good Lord, no!” he chuckled, sitting his tea aside before he spilled it in his lap. 

Now _that_ was truly cruel. Sherlock sat back and continued to stare up at John, tears welling in his eyes. 

John noticed, and the laughter died away. “Sherlock,” he said gently, and took the little detective’s chin in his hand. “The city’s just not a good place for that kind of thing, love. There’s not a great lot for them to eat around here, and too many people.”

Sherlock’s chin began to wobble.

_‘Christ.’_ “Besides, have you forgotten what bees do?” John whispered seriously, as if he had a great, big secret to tell. 

Sherlock blinked up at him, waiting. 

John leaned in closer; “They… _sting!_ ” he crowed, and poked Sherlock right in the ribs, taking him by surprise. Sherlock startled back and covered himself with his hands. 

“Did you see the size of that one?!” John poked him again, on the other side. “Look, there’s another one! And one over there! And behind you!” and on and on he went, poking the little detective in the neck, the belly, the ear, under the arm, wherever he could, until the squirming little boy fell over backwards, squealing and giggling. “ ‘toppit, ‘addy!” he panted in between giggles as he lay flat on the floor, grinning up at John around his dummy, his eyes crinkling happily at the edges. 

John laughed and scooted off of his chair to sit on the floor next to him, and within moments, had a bundle of bright-eyed little boy in his lap. “I know you love bees, sweetheart,” he said, kissing his forehead. “But we just can’t right now.”

Sherlock sighed and leaned against John. Maybe he was right, after all. “Th’omeday?” the little detective asked, peering up at John through his eyelashes. 

John smiled. “Someday.”


	4. Bedwetter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Sherlock and John wake up, and the bed is wet in the middle, and they can't tell who is to blame!"

“I don’t know why you’re glaring at _me_ ; I’m not the one who did it!”

“Oh, I _know_ you’re not saying I did!”

“There were only two people in this bed, John.”

John stared hard at Sherlock, who was currently stripping off a pair of cold, damp pajama bottoms at his side of the bed, and waited. “…And?” he asked, when it became obvious that no other explanation would be forthcoming.

“And I did not piss in it.”

“You must have, because it WAS. NOT. ME!” John snapped, as he shucked down his own soddened boxer shorts. 

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and kicked his bottoms off to the side, then turned and began to strip the blankets and sheets from the bed, where there happened to be a very sizable, tell-tale stain. “I have never wet the bed in my life, John.”

“Says the grown man who still wears nappies.”

Sherlock’s back stiffened and he froze, sheet still in hand. Very slowly, he raised his head to peer up at John. “Wears them by choice. Not by necessity. But you…you don’t choose to keep having night terrors, do you?”

Now John froze, holding his wadded boxers in his hand. “That’s not funny,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“I wasn’t implying that it was.”

John fought the urge to throw those piss-soaked boxers right into Sherlock’s face. Surely, the other man must be making fun of him. But, when he was finally able to turn and meet Sherlock’s gaze, it was very clear that he had no such intentions. John felt his cheeks begin to pinken, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve never…wet the bed, either,” he said, dropping them into the middle of the sheets and reaching to untuck the corner on his side. 

Sherlock continued to stare at him, but remained silent for a time while they finished stripping the bed completely and bundled all the soiled laundry together. At last he stood and took the whole load into his arms. “I’m going to put these in the wash.”

John nodded.

“Then we’ll flip the mattress, and both have a shower.”

John nodded again. These were all good ideas. 

“…And I think we should both wear a nappy tonight.”

John looked up at him, startled. 

Sherlock gave him a half smile. “Just in case.”

John couldn’t help but return it, and gave a small laugh. “Sure, just in case. Alright, get going, you big baby…I’m not waiting for a shower.”

Sherlock snorted, but he was still grinning when he turned and walked out of the room.

John smirked, and enjoyed the view.


	5. One Late Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Sherlock shows lil' Jawn that not all diapied spankings need to be for punishments. Jawn likes this idea..... a lot."

Jawn sat up and flipped his pillow over, then flopped back down. A few minutes later, he tossed to his other side. He couldn’t sleep. His mind simply would not shut off.

Everything was distracting. Every sound from outside was something that needed to be investigated. Every moving shadow. Every passing light from the window.

Most distracting of all, though, was the nappy that was fastened a little too snugly around his hips; the thick padding, just a little too warm. A little too crinkly when he moved. Tight enough to feel pressing against his cock, yet not tight enough to cause the right amount of friction needed for relief.

This was all Sherlock’s fault. If he hadn’t insisted that today be a ‘Jawn’ day, and hadn’t insisted on putting him to bed in a nappy, then he could just have a quick wank and get to sleep, no problem. He technically _could_ just cup his hand on his front and rut against it while he squeezed…well, _maybe_ …

No, too noisy. Sherlock would hear, and then Jawn would have bigger problems than just not being able to sleep.

Prick.

Jawn flopped over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. This was torture.

“For _God’sake_.”

Jawn startled at the sudden voice. Next to him, Sherlock sat up on his elbow and clicked on the lamp sitting on his bedside table. “What is the _problem_?”

Jawn blinked, and shielded his eyes with his hand. “Huh?”

“You’ve been tossing and turning for two hours now. What. is. the. problem.”

Jawn peeked between two fingers. “Can’t sleep.”

Sherlock snorted and sat up, blocking most of the light from shining directly into Jawn’s face. “Well, obviously. Why?”

Jawn lowered his hand and shrugged. “Dunno,” he mumbled.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “Fine. Come here.”

Jawn faltered. ‘Come here’ never usually led to good things. “What for?” he asked, uncertainty in his voice.

Sherlock adjusted his pillow and sat back against the headboard. “I know what puts you to sleep. Come here.”

Well, now Jawn was intrigued. Really, there was only one thing that Sherlock could be talking about. But was it really _that_ easy? Just annoy Sherlock to the point of–?

Sherlock rolled his eyes and, before Jawn could react, reached out and took then smaller man by the shoulders, then heaved him facedown over his lap.

Now the panic began to set in. This was the exact situation that Jawn had hoped to avoid. “Wait, wait!” He scrambled to reach back and cover his backside with both hands. “I didn’t do anything!”

“I know you didn’t.”

Jawn tried to crane his neck to peer over his shoulder. What was going on back there?! “Wait…what?”

“As I told you before, I know what makes you tired.” Sherlock took each of Jawn’s hands and calmly moved them out of the way. “You’re not in trouble. Relax.”

Once he realized that he wasn’t going to get the daylights whacked out of him, Jawn’s initial panic subsided, and left him more puzzled now than he’d been before. “So what–?” he began to ask, and was promptly cut off by the flat of Sherlock’s hand thunking against his nappy. Then again. Then again. Jawn realized that Sherlock was purposefully *not* striking him hard enough to hurt.

In fact…it felt really, _really_ good.

Jawn silenced his protesting and did as Sherlock asked, finally relaxing into the steady rhythm of firm, full-handed swats to his bum, each one sending muffled sensations through the padding, straight to his…well.

They were killing two birds with one very sensual stone tonight, it seemed.

Jawn soon found himself rutting against Sherlock’s thigh in time with each swat, and as the movements of his hips started to pick up the pace, so did Sherlock’s swats. Jawn’s breath came in quick pants; if he just had a _little_ bit more…!

Sherlock’s other hand snaked under his waist, cupped the front of his nappy, and squeezed.

Jawn moaned and pressed his face into the mattress, his hips moving in frantic, jerking motions as heat began to pool in his lower belly, spreading to his thighs, and then…and then…!

_Aaah._

Sherlock slowly removed his hand from Jawn’s front, and started to rub his padded backside with the other, while Jawn caught his breath. He said nothing for several minutes, while he listened to the smaller man’s breathing become steadier, more shallow…“Not every spanking has to be a punishment, you know.”

Jawn grunted and nodded his head without opening his eyes.

Loathe as he was to disturb the now-peaceful doctor, it would not do for either of them if he fell asleep over Sherlock’s lap. “Here, let Da’..” he said, and helped Jawn sit up and move back to his side of the bed, where he immediately started to doze off again, the moment his head hit his pillow.

Sherlock smirked, and tucked the blankets around him snugly. He always knew what Jawn needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Psst....don't be afraid to come send me prompts!**  
> **http://sadieandmo.tumblr.com/**


	6. Fusspot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Could you do a little mini mini teeny tiny Daddy Sherlock and little fussy baby Jawn? Love love love your blog!!

Sherlock sat at the table near the window, laptop in front of him, and stared at the blinking cursor on the screen. He’d been trying to finish this particular blog post on how to tell someone’s emotional state from a sample of their penmanship for over an hour now, but for some reason, he was having a hard time finding the motivation. 

And that reason was currently sitting at his feet, untying his shoelaces. 

Sherlock reached down without looking and batted a stubby little hand away, which only set off a whole chorus of whinging and fussing. 

“Jawn, that’s enough.”

The whinging got louder, and the same hand from before now found his trouser leg, and tugged. 

“I told you…you’ll have to wait until I’m finished. You do realise you’re making your own wait even longer?”

The whinging only grew more insistent, bordering on a full-blown strop, while the tugging at his trousers turned into headbutts at his knee. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, then looked down at the floor; Jawn stared back, all teary-eyed turmoil with messy hair and with a ratty, well-loved blanket gripped in his fist. 

Sherlock stared back at him and sighed; “You need a nap.”

To his surprise, Jawn nodded, then held up his arms to be picked up, making grabbing motions with his hands. 

Despite himself, Sherlock smiled. “You little manipulator.” He stood up from his chair and, after a quick stretch, reached down for Jawn and made the same grabbing motions. “Come along.”

Jawn scrambled up from the floor and practically jumped into Sherlock’s waiting arms, clinging to him. 

Sherlock kissed the side of his head and began to carry him towards the bedroom. “That’s not going to work every time, you know.”

Though he couldn’t see his face, the way he was tucked into the crook of his neck, Sherlock could swear that he felt Jawn smile.


	7. Pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Sherlock and John want a pet, but what kind to get?"
> 
> **based off an rp Mo and I did back in 2013**
> 
> **This one is a little out of my ordinary; if you would prefer not to read about rats, or _slight_ mentions of gore, you may want to skip**

John Watson was sitting in his chair, paper in hand, and was having a uneventful, yet peaceful, afternoon while his husband, one Sherlock Holmes, was on call for once, instead of the other way ‘round. 

That perfect, warm, cozy aura of peace was abruptly shattered when their front door kicked open and Sherlock glided through, a broad grin on his face, and a covered, square-shaped item in his hands. 

After his mini-heart attack, John was instantly on the alert. “Sherlock…?” he asked as he reluctantly got up and followed the other man into the kitchen, eyeing the mysterious package.

Sherlock delicately sat the box down (which did nothing to alleviate the increasingly  uneasy feeling that was creeping up the back of John’s neck) and, with a great flourish, pulled the cloth covering off, revealing…

  
The biggest, fattest grey rat John had ever seen, sitting in the middle of a square wire cage like a furry puddle. The creature stood on up it’s hind legs, it’s whiskers wiggling as it smelled the new smells of the flat.  

John let out an audible gasp and reeled back, holding his arms in the air as if he expected it to burst through the cage and go straight for his throat. “Sherlock, that’s a..! That’s a _rat!_ ” he hissed through clenched teeth, in utter disgust. 

“Very good, John…I brought in a rat,” the detective repeated, the grin not leaving his face. He unfastened the latch on the front of the cage and held his hand flat out in from of the door, then waited patiently. The rat dropped back to all fours and sniffed all around again, before taking several small, tentative steps out of the cage and into Sherlock’s hand, where it sat and started sniffing his sleeve.

“ _WHY_ is there a rat on our kitchen table?!” The pitch of John’s voice was now several decibels higher than it normally was, as well as his blood pressure. 

Sherlock finally took his focus off the rat and looked up at John, highly amused. “It’s perfectly tame, John…it was someone’s pet,” he said, getting a wicked little gleam in his eye and, after putting his other hand on top of it’s back to keep it from falling, held out his outstretched arms and took a step towards him.

“ **SHERLOCK!** ” John took another sharp step back and stumbled over a kitchen chair. After stumbling around for what seemed like a half hour, he finally untangled himself from the chair and kicked it aside. “ **That’s not funny!!!!** ”

Sherlock laughed and stuck it back in it’s cage, where it promptly buried itself in the shredded newspaper lining the bottom, then made sure the latch was fastened before going to help John up. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a creature less than a fraction of your size…?”

John was not amused. He jerked his arm away and brushed himself off, lips pressed tightly together.

Sherlock had the sense that he *might* have pushed things a bit too far. “It’s harmless, John,” he said, and pulled another chair ‘round to sit in front of the cage. 

“That still doesn’t tell me why it’s in our kitchen.”

“Because.” Sherlock stuck the tip of his finger between the bars, and a tiny, pink nose popped out. “He needs an owner, and I need a pet.”

John’s stomach churned at the mere thought. No… _God_ , no! And he was going to tell Sherlock exactly what he could do with that bloody disgusting, _vile_ , disease-ridden vermin and where he could do it with!…when the look on Sherlock’s face gave him pause. The rat had poked it’s head out of hiding and was stretching towards Sherlock’s finger, whiskers twitching. 

John took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair.  "Sherlock, why…aw, come on Sherlock…doesn’t he have an owner or…a trap…no, no, don’t look at me like that, I was only joking!” He sighed…”Where did he come from anyway?”

“ _Had_ an owner,” Sherlock corrected, still peering at John cautiously. “There was a rather portly gentleman that hadn’t been seen in a few days, and was discovered when the smell permeated the rest of the building.” Sherlock stood and shrugged out of his coat, then went to the sink to wash his hands. “They called me to come discern what caused specific wounds in his side, and when Molly used the rib-spreader…there he was, sitting in the chest cavity.” He turned, looking at John sadly; “They were going to dissect him, John!… _dissect_ him! I couldn’t let them do that; he didn’t kill the man!” Now Sherlock looked to the cage; the rat had come out of hiding, and was cautiously walking around the perimeter of it’s cage, inspecting its boundaries. Sherlock pouted; “So…I took him.”

John’s face turned white, then green, then grey. He opened his mouth to say something…but only managed a weak “I think I’m going to be sick…” before dashing to the washroom.

“I’ve already washed him off!” Sherlock called after him, hoping that this bit of information wouldn’t ruin his chances of getting to keep the little guy. He was already planning several useful experiments…non-invasive ones of course, such as training him to recognize and react to certain smells and sounds. He’d even picked out a name already…Morris. 

Sherlock walked to the cabinet and fetched a packet of crisps, then came back to the table. He could hear John retching into the toilet as he opened them, and rolled his eyes…and John had always chided _him_ about being a princess. He passed a crisp through the bars and smiled as Morris made a beeline for it and took it between his eager little paws.

“Welcome home, Morris.”


	8. Hard-headed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Getting into headspace can be really hard (specially for us switches). Can you show Da' kindly, but firmly, putting Jawn into headspace? You know hobbits have impressively hard heads ;-)"

A candy bar. That was all John wanted; a candy bar. Was that too much to ask? Especially after the long, withering, soul-crushing day he’d had standing in the blazing sun, culminating in a fight (a real, actual ‘I’m-going-to-bring-up-everything-terrible-you’ve-ever-done’ fight that may or may not have been John’s fault in the first place; he couldn’t remember after standing right under the _fucking_ SUN) with Sherlock…at a scene, no less (in front of Greg and every other goggle-eyed bobby there, who all made it a point to pretend they weren’t listening even though they were)!

And all he wanted, was a candy bar. Just a little something to help him forget all the bad things for a minute or two. 

John stood in front of the vending machine, looking over the selection…he wanted chocolate, that’s for certain. But what kind? A Galaxy? A Wispa? Cadbury’s? Maltesers? A Time-Out…?

John frowned. No, he did not want a Time-Out. 

While he was considering his options, someone behind John stepped up to the machine, and he automatically moved to the side to get out of their way. 

“…Do you think you’ve been good enough for a sweetie today?”

John’s eyes shot to the reflection in the glass. ‘ _Great. That’s just great_ ,’ he thought. It was too soon for Round Two of the ‘Great Ball-Busting Bitchfest of 2k16′. “Shut up.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes; “That attitude isn’t going to get you anything, young man,” he said, and put his hand on John’s shoulder.

A hand that John immediately shrugged off, and with enough vehemence that nearly knocked himself off-balance. “Don’t do that here!” he hissed between clenched teeth, keeping his voice low. 

But Sherlock was undeterred, and met John’s blistering gaze with his own cool, unwavering one. “Jawn…”

John knew what Sherlock was trying to do, and it was not. going. to. work. He reached into his pocket; sod it, he was getting a Mars, and then he was going to go away and enjoy it…

John stopped. 

His pocket was empty. He had no change. He didn’t even have a spare note on him. 

John felt the heat creep up his neck, flushing his cheeks. Great. They could keep their _fucking_ candy. He fought the urge to kick the machine right in it’s stupid, reflective, condescending face and turned on his heel, ready to stomp off and get the _fuck_ out of this _fucking_ building, with these _fucking_ eavesdropping pricks, and this big, ponce _fucker_ and his _fucking-_ -!

…The hand was back on his shoulder, stopping him. 

And just before John could rip that hand and the arm attached to it right out of it’s socket and beat it’s owner right in his smug face with it, Sherlock demonstrated, once again, that he was a man of impeccable timing–”Let Da’ get this one, love. What did you want?”

Jawn stopped, and let Sherlock turn him around. Well…the git _was_ offering to buy him candy. But that didn’t mean Jawn still couldn’t be pissed off. “Mars,” he mumbled, staring down at the floor. 

And he continued to stare down at the floor while he listened to the sound of coins being handled, then dropped into the slot. He stared at the floor while the little spirally things whirred, and when his candy fell with a thunk into the bottom tray. And he definitely didn’t look up when Sherlock bent down to retrieve it, and held it under Jawn’s nose. 

Jawn reached for it and mumbled a quick “Thanks,”…but before he could touch it, Sherlock’s hand closed around it and pulled it away.

Jawn’s head snapped up; “Wha–!?”

“You can have this after,” Sherlock said, pocketing it.

Jawn looked up at him suspiciously; “After…?”

“After we go home and sit you on the Naughty Step for the way you’ve been acting all day.”

“But…!” Sherlock gave him a very pointed look, a look that said, very plainly, that he would not be above creating a Naughty Step right here at the office if pressed. Jawn faltered, and stared back down at his feet. He guessed he _had_ been in a bit of a bad mood before they’d left for the scene, anyway. And it hadn’t been Sherlock’s fault that it had been so hot today. And he could have been a little nicer when he asked if it was time to go yet. And he could have waited longer than five minutes before asking again, he supposed…

Jawn toed the carpet with his shoe; “Sor’ee,” he mumbled. 

He felt Sherlock’s hand at his lower back, and then the detective kissed the top of his bowed head. “I know. Come along, sweetheart…it’s time to go home.” 

“…I can still have my candy?” Jawn asked, peeking up at his Da’ hopefully.

“Of course.” Sherlock took Jawn’s hand, and they both headed for the elevators. “…After time-out.”

“But I asked for a Mars!” 

Sherlock hit the button and gave Jawn a sideways glance. “Cute.”

Jawn returned a cheeky grin and giggled, then gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze. “I’ssa good one, huh Da’?”

“That’s debatable.”


	9. Bedtime Blunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "lil baby jawn always get the size kink. can you have big daddy john carry his cute lil sherlock to bed? pweasssee!"
> 
> I have been writing an awful lot of Little Jawn lately, haven’t I? Fair enough. :)

“Time for bed.” 

Sherlock make a noncommittal noise. 

“Time. for. bed,” John repeated for the fourth time, his voice growing tight.

Sherlock finally looked up from the literal stack of papers Greg had sent home with him earlier, and glared at John…or tried to glare, if he could have gotten his eyes to focus. “I’m nearly done,” he said flatly. 

John looked again at the pile…Sherlock wasn’t even a third of the way through them yet. John didn’t even fully understand what was so bloody important about them, anyway; he hadn’t been with Sherlock at the station when he got them, and by the time he’d gotten home from the clinic, the detective was already absorbed in whatever task he’d been assigned, and hadn’t bother answering any of John’s queries. Which had done nothing but irritate John even further. “And you’ll still be ‘nearly done’ in the morning. Come on, let’s go. Now.”

Sherlock rubbed at his bleary eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No.”

John’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head; “Excuse me?”

“I said ‘no’, I’m almost fin-”

Before Sherlock could even finish his sentence, John marched across the room to where the detective had been standing for hours now, hunched over the myriad of papers that had been scribbled over, blacked out, and highlighted, and gave Sherlock a hard, stinging slap squarely across the arse, cutting him off instantly. 

Silence. Not even the air stirred. Sherlock kept his head low, his hair shielding his face. 

“When I said ‘now’, I meant ‘ **now** ’,” John snapped, his gaze boring down directly onto the man next to him. He _will_ be listened to. 

He heard Sherlock take a quick, shallow breath…and then his shoulders began to shake. 

John hesitated. “Sherlock…?” he asked, dropping the harsh, military edge to his voice. 

Sherlock reached back with both hands, and held his backside. “I, I j-just…I was–” he stammered, his voice getting smaller and smaller…before dissolving into tears. 

John melted in an instant. “Oh, love,” he cooed, and turned Sherlock towards him so he could pull him into a big hug. Gone was the frustration of being ignored, the hardness…he was in full Daddy-mode now. 

And as Sherlock laid his head on his shoulder, sobbing away, Daddy sure felt like the biggest arsehole on the planet. 

“Shh, it’s alright…I’m sorry, Daddy’s sorry,” he soothed, rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock’s trembling back. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

“G’eg a-ask, ask m-me, I, I…!” Sherlock babbled into his ear, and John shushed him. “I know, I know…you just like to help your Uncle Greg. You know he loves you an awful lot, don’t you?” 

“Y-Yeah,” Sherlock hiccuped in his ear. 

“So, d’yah think he’d want you staying up past your bedtime and making yourself sick over these things? No,he wouldn’t,” John answered for him. “And I don’t, either. I want my best little boy getting plenty of sleep so he can keep being amazing.”

Sherlock went quiet for a moment…the tears had nearly stopped. “Y-y’ah?” he sniffled. 

John smiled. “Yeah,” he said, kissing the mop of curly hair in his face. “Here, stand up and look at Daddy, please.” Sherlock stepped back and looked up at John through his eyelashes, head still bowed and hands still plastered to his bottom. 

John reached out and cupped a ruddy, tear-streaked cheek with his hand. “I’m very, very sorry I smacked your bum like that,” he said,using his thumb to gently wipe away the tears from a puffy, red-raw eye. “But it’s still bedtime. And you can finish all of this tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, when you can be your brilliant little self and put the rest of us to shame.” 

Sherlock finally gave him a smile…a small, watery smile, but still a smile. 

John smiled back. “Do you want Daddy to help get you ready for bed?” 

Sherlock nodded quickly, and John chuckled. “Good boy…come on, up you go.” 

“Up?” Sherlock repeated, his eyes growing big and hopeful, and John grinned broadly…he couldn’t do this for Sherlock often, but when he could, it meant the world to him. And he wanted to make it up to him after losing his temper and smacking him like that. “Yeah, up…come on, big boy.” 

John wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist; “Okay, ready? One, two, three…jump!” he counted, and a moment later, he had his arms full and there was a beaming, pleased-as-punch little detective balanced on his hip. “How about a nice, dry nappy and a bottle tonight, hm?” he asked, kissing Sherlock’s cheek as he carried him back towards their bedroom. 

Sherlock nodded and nuzzled into the crook of John’s neck with a content-sounding sigh. 

John gave his narrow little waist a squeeze. “Daddy loves his little boy, yes he does,” he said, kissing him again. 

“Yes, he does.”


	10. Roadtrip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Hi sorry to bother you huge fan!!! Can you please do a ficlet about little sherlock and daddy john travelling and sherlock needs a diaper change? Thanx!!!"
> 
> Sadie: This one’s been sitting in my inbox for awhile (and I’m extremely sorry about that!), so it’s well past time to suck it up and get back to work! :)

“How much farther?” John asked, and tried to stretch out his legs in the cramped passenger seat, to very little affect. 

“Christ, you’re worse than a kid,” Greg grunted without taking his eyes from the road. “Even the baby’s been more patient than you.” 

“He’s had the entire backseat to himself, and he’s slept most of the time. How much longer?”

“Another hour an’ a half, maybe forty-five minutes.”  He was starting to regret ever suggesting a week-long holiday at the little place Mycroft had stashed away on the coast. At least, he regretted offering to be the one to drive them down there a day earlier than Mycroft could get away. Should’a waited. “Should I pull over so we can get a stretch in?” he suggested…he could actually use a minute to walk around, as well.

“Yeah, might do,” John replied, and turned to look over his shoulder into the backseat. Sherlock was still asleep, thankfully, curled up under one of his soft, fuzzy blankets, Gladstone tucked under his neck, and thumb in his mouth. There was supposed to be a dummy back there somewhere…probably under one of the seats by now. “And I bet he needs a change.”

“That’s one benefit of driving out in the middle of fuck-all nowhere,” Greg said with a half grin. 

A few minutes later, Greg pulled off the road and parked underneath a fair-sized tree, giving them a bit of shade (as well as some privacy, in the unlikely event that someone should just happen by). John had his seatbelt unbuckled and off even as the car came to a rolling stop, and was out the door before Greg could cut the engine. He took a big, deep breath and went up onto his toes, arms above his head, getting every kink out of every muscle that he knew of (and some that he’d forgotten existed), then walked to the back door of the car and opened it to check on his sleeping baby.  

He eased the blanket up around Sherlock’s waist, taking care not to disturb him too much, just in case he didn’t need a new nappy after all…but one look at the tell-tale bulge underneath the little detective’s onesie dispelled that in a hurry. 

He heard Greg come up behind him. “Is’e wet?” 

“Yeah…could you grab me the nappy bag, please?”

As Greg went around to the boot of the car where all the bags were kept, John began to gently unsnap Sherlock’s onesie, revealing a thoroughly-soaked nappy…practically on the verge of leaking. 

Sherlock stirred at the movement, and cracked open one sleep-fogged eye to peer up at John. 

“Hey, you…” John said quietly, smiling at him, and started to ruck the little one’s onesie up around his waist. “Did you have a good sleep? Certainly looks like you did.” 

The little detective murmured sleepily and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. 

“Is’sat so?” John asked, and stood up to take the nappy bag from Greg as he passed it to him over the car door. John set it in the floorboard and unzipped it, then reached for the package of wipes. “Sounds interesting. Then what happened?”

Sherlock seemed to be drifting back off as John talked to him, which was perfectly fine with him…a sleeping baby was better than a fussing one any day. Sherlock was generally good with changes, but it was a 50/50 shot when he was either due for a nap, or just waking up from one. But hey, if he wanted to sleep through the whole process, John wasn’t going to complain. Let him sleep through it. 

And he would have…until Greg slammed the boot closed, jarring the whole car and, of course, Sherlock with it. 

The little detective’s eyes popped open at the sudden loud, awful noise, and started to cry. 

John stood up and gave Greg a not-so-nice look. The man winced; “Sorry, sorry! Didn’t think!” he said, still apologising as he went to the opposite side of the car and opened the other door. “Aw, lad…I’m sorry,” he cooed, reaching in to pet Sherlock’s hair in an attempt to soothe him. “Uncle Greg didn’t mean to scare you!”

“Just find his dummy.” John tore the soiled nappy open and made quick work of cleaning Sherlock up while Greg had him distracted. 

After a hurried search, Greg finally found it underneath the baby’s head, tangled in his hair. Another big burst of tears later and he had it freed, wiped off, and popped into Sherlock’s wailing mouth…finally, there was peace again. 

While John finished wrapping up all the soiled products in a plastic bag for later disposal, Greg dried up the last of the tears by picking up Gladstone and placing ‘puppy-kisses’ all over Sherlock’s face, turning the sniffles into giggles. “Is Daddy all done down there?” he asked him cheerfully, tickling his neck with the stuffed animal. 

“Yeah, Daddy’s all done.” John stood up and stretched again, then propped his elbow on the door and looked around. “Hey…let’s get a blanket out under the tree and let him get some air, too.”

“You not in a rush anymore?”

“Nah…I just needed a bit out of the car. We could eat a bit here, too..it’s nice out.”

Greg considered it, and shrugged. “Sounds good to me…what about you, little man?” he asked, waving the stuffed animal over Sherlock’s face again. “You hungry?” 

Sherlock giggled and snatched the puppy from Greg, hugging it to his face. Greg looked up at John; “Does that mean yes?”

“Yeah, that’s a ‘yes’.” John reached in and took Sherlock’s hands, pulling him up into a sitting position. “Come on, you little monster.”

John heard Greg scoff before shutting the other door; “Still more patient than you.”


	11. Bedtime Blunder part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:"What about daddy Sherlock comforting baby Jawn after a nightmare, maybe with some bottle feeding somewhere?"
> 
> Sadie: Another one that’s been too long in the making.
> 
> You know what?…how about a sequel?

3:45 am. 

On a Tuesday. 

John had gone to bed long ago. Hours. 

Sherlock had declined. There was still the stack of paperwork for Greg left to be done, after having put it off for the better part of a week. 

John was in no mood for an argument, and had left the man to his work on the promise that he would come to bed (and stay there for a good, solid eight hours) as soon as the ink was dry on the last page. 

Sherlock had agreed. Even if it had seemed a little _too_ easy. 

Which is why, when he heard the door to their bedroom swing open and a pair of feet clad in thick socks (the grey woolen ones, from the sound of it) slowly made their way down the hall, he was already prepared for an argument. “I said I would come to bed when I was done,” he snapped. He would not let himself get knocked into his ‘little’ headspace this time. 

What he had _not_ been prepared for, though, was the sound of sniffling. 

Sherlock turned around in his seat, frowning. “John…?”

John stood in the doorway to the kitchen, clad in a rumpled t-shirt that was two sizes too big (because it was more than likely one of Sherlock’s) and pajama bottoms, hair looking as if it hadn’t seen a comb in months, and while there were no tears evident on his face, they weren’t that far off. “John?…What’s the matter?” he asked again, only much, _much_ softer this time. 

John swallowed thickly, and it was obvious that he was trying desperately not to cry. “Can I…can I sit with you?” he whispered, his voice strained. 

Sherlock had been wrong. This was not ‘John’ that he was talking to. He pushed his chair back from the table and held out his arms. 

Jawn quickly crossed the room without another word and crawled onto Sherlock’s lap, straddling him, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders while burying his face in the crook of his neck. 

Sherlock held onto him just as tightly. “Bad dreams?” 

Jawn nodded. 

Sherlock kissed the side of his head. “Can you tell me about them?” 

Jawn shook his head. 

“That’s okay.” Sherlock rubbed a hand up and down his little one’s back, and began to rock him back and forth. “We can just sit here.”

And so they did. They sat, and Sherlock rocked. And rocked. And rocked. Just when he thought Jawn had fallen asleep in his lap, the little man surprised him and moved to peek out from his place on the detective’s shoulder. “Hello there,” Sherlock said, smiling as he peered down at him. 

Jawn didn’t respond, except to start sucking on the two middlemost fingers of his right hand. 

Hm. It must have been a hell of a nightmare if it had Jawn sucking on his fingers. He was normally a 100% dummy-or-bust baby. “You know, a bottle would taste better.”

Jawn turned his gaze up at Sherlock. 

“Can Da’ make you one?”

Jawn nodded, but didn’t move otherwise.

“That means I’ll have to get up.” Sherlock felt fingers at his back tighten their hold on his shirt. “You can come _with_ me, you know.”

Ten minutes (and quite a lot of fussing and whimpering and accidental pinches from clutching fingers) later, Sherlock was back in his chair, Jawn was back in his lap, and things felt considerably better now that he had a warm bottle grasped in his hands, instead of Sherlock’s button-up. 

Sherlock scooted his chair closer to the table, where he still had several sheets spread out. “Since you’re up, how about you make yourself useful and help Da’ with his papers,” he said teasingly, and kissed Jawn’s forehead. 

Jawn nodded, and reached for a nearby highlighter. 

“Ah, noooo.” Sherlock reached it first. “You’re the pointer, I’m the highlighter.”

Jawn huffed and attempted to act put-out, but all Sherlock had to do was poke his belly with the capped end of the marker, and the act fell apart. Jawn clutched his tummy and giggled. 

Sherlock chuckled, as well…well, he’d gotten a smile and a laugh; as far as he was concerned, that was a success. 

“Alright, start pointing, pointer.” 


	12. Doctor Jawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Could you possibly write something about a very tiny jawn trying to make his sick daddy feel better? I love your work ❤"
> 
> Sadie: Aw, you’re too kind! Here it is, Nonny, I hope you like it!
> 
> (P.S. I was right near the end of typing this up, when my finger hit the touchpad on my laptop, and the page changed…lost everything. I typed it up again really quickly, and I’m afraid it’s not as good as it originally was; I’m so sorry about that. :( )  
> **not brit-picked**

Jawn sat on the floor, the full sippy-cup in his hands and the animated show playing on the telly behind him both going largely ignored, and frowned at the couch.

Well, he was frowning about what was _on_ the couch, rather than the couch itself. The couch had done nothing wrong. Da’ was just laying on it.

Not that Da’ had done anything wrong, either! No, Da’ was sick. He hadn’t told Jawn he was sick, but Jawn could tell anyway, because Da’s cheeks were red…the kind of red they always get when Jawn says something sweet about him, but Jawn hadn’t said anything like that today, because Da’ was asleep, and had asked Jawn to play quietly while he napped.

And Da’ never napped. Not when he felt well.

So, Jawn knew he didn’t feel well.

Jawn’s brows knitted together, concerned…he didn’t like it when Da’ didn’t feel well. He put his cup aside and slowly crawled over to the couch, careful  not to make a sound. He sat up on his knees and leaned over Sherlock, listening to him breathe.

Jawn was relieved when Sherlock’s breathing sounded like it should and not rough or bumpy, like something in his chest was broken. Jawn knew that was good. But Da’s cheeks were still red, and when Jawn softly pressed his hand to one, it was hot and damp feeling.

Jawn knew that was not good.

He sat back on his heels, and frowned again. Da’ was sick. Jawn wanted to make him not sick. Jawn was a doctor; he should know how to help him.

Jawn chewed on his finger, and thought. What could make Da’ feel better.

…Tea.

Tea makes people feel better.

Jawn knows how to make tea. He’ll make Da’ some tea, and then Da’ will feel better.

Jawn climbed to his knees and toddled into the kitchen, where the electric kettle sat on the counter. There was already water in it, so Jawn turned it on the way he knew to do, and dragged a chair over…all he needed now was Sherlock’s favorite cup, and the tea.

In the sitting room, Sherlock stirred and cracked open a sleep-laden eye…he knew that sound.

Meanwhile, Jawn had retrieved Da’s favorite mug, and with the handle safely clasped in his mouth (he needed both hands to get the box of tea), he plopped his padded bottom on top of the counter next to the kettle and waited for it to get hot.

Jawn opened the box of tea and took a deep breath. Hmm…if one tea bag was good, two bags would be better. Da’ might feel better faster. And three bags would be even faster, still. And he really wanted his Da’ to wake up and feel better as fast as possible.

Jawn wiggled happily at his brilliant idea, and grabbed a handful of tea bags to put in Da’s cup. Then he sat back and watched as the water in the kettle began to boil and bubble up, until it finally cut off. Jawn knew that’s what it does when it’s ready. He reached for the kettle with both hands, getting ready to pour, and…

“Jawn.”

Jawn jumped, startled, and began to tip right off the counter where he would have landed headfirst…if his Da’ hadn’t been across the room in one giant step and caught him ‘round the waist. Sherlock sat Jawn back on the counter, upright, and pushed the kettle well out of the way. “What did you think you were doing?” he asked, sounding winded.

Jawn was still a little spooked after his near-disastrous tumble. He chewed on his finger and peeked up at Sherlock through his eyelashes; “I, I was just…I wan'ned m-make, I…” he stammered in a near whisper, as his eyes began to well up. “Wan'ned you'a feel b-better.”

Sherlock sighed…he just couldn’t muster up the energy to scold the little guy, not after a scare like that (for both of them). “Just…Jawn is not allowed to touch that kettle again, not without Da’ watching, is that understood? That could have been an awful, _awful_ accident, and I don’t want anything to happen to my Jawn.”

Jawn nodded shakily, and grasped Sherlock in a tight hug, burying his face in his chest.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jawn and rested a feverish cheek on top of his little boy’s head. They’d talk more about it later, when he could actually formulate a coherent sentence and make sense of Jawn’s babbling. Though, honestly, it was a little funny that even while regressed, Jawn was a tea-hungry little–

“Jawn?”

Jawn peered up at his Da’.

“…Why are there fifteen tea bags in one cup?”


	13. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Whoops, forgot to add the prompt!**
> 
> Prompt: "I hope prompts are still open! Would love to see Sherlock get a richly deserved spanking from Daddy John, followed by some adorable cuddles!"

John stared at the cursor at the top of the page. He’d been staring at it for awhile now as it blinked at him, the rest of the page depressingly blank. 

The longer he stared, the more mocking it seemed. He frowned. 

Then, just as he was getting ready to type a great, big, bold, fancy-scripted ‘ **FUCK** ’  right in the middle of the page, just for something to look at, there was a tug on his trouser leg. “…Da’yee?”

John stopped and looked down, all too glad for an excuse to turn away from the screen. 

Sherlock sat up on his knees and stared up at him with big, curious eyes and the soft expression he always had whenever he fell back into his little space. 

John couldn’t help but smile, and marvel at how he had the cutest little boy in the world. “What, love?” he asked fondly, and reached down to pinch Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock squeaked and pulled away from John’s fingers, but John could definitely see the edges of a huge smile peeking around the dummy that was forever planted in the little detective’s mouth. “N’ah pin’sh!” he giggled. 

John chuckled, as well. “But they’re so pinchable!” he said and pretended to go for it again, then laughed as Sherlock fell backwards to avoid him. “Silly boy…what did you need Daddy for?”

Sherlock sat back up on his knees, and leaned onto John’s lap. “Fir’thy?” he said, making it a question, and blinked up at him. 

“You’re thirsty?” 

Sherlock nodded. “P’eathe?”

John grinned, and ruffled his fingers through Sherlocks’ hair. Truthfully, he was glad for an excuse to put his computer aside…and he’d rather play with the baby, anyway. “Sure,” he said as he did just that; he turned his laptop off and waited for it to shut down, then put it aside and stood. “You know what, your Da’ wants a cuppa too. You sit there and play, love, and I’ll be right back.”

Minutes later, John returned to find Sherlock still playing quietly on the floor with his big bucket of magnetic building pieces that Nana had bought for him ages ago. But when the little detective finally noticed John come in and sit back down with two cups in his hands, there was no more ‘quiet’ about anything. Abandoning his toys, Sherlock scurried over to John and started to climb into the chair with him, jabbering away. “Mine?! Mine cup?! Mine, p’eashe?!”

“Wait, wait…!” John barely had time to put down the very hot, bordering-on-scalding cup of tea before Sherlock settled himself squarely into his lap. “Jesus, child,” he muttered, and handed Sherlock a brightly coloured sippy-cup. “There, there’s your cup. What do you say?”

“Fank’oo!” Sherlock babbled, and let his dummy fall right out of his mouth as he opened wide and began to suck down the contents of his cup with fervor. 

John watched with a raised eyebrow, then shook his head and reached for his tea. But before he could take that first glorious sip, though, he noticed that Sherlock had suddenly gone still. John looked again; the little detective was now frowning at the cup in his hands. “What’s the matter?”

“Is juice,” Sherlock fussed, as if an awful trick had been played on him. 

“Very good, you’re right…that’s juice.”

“I wan’ tea.”

“No, you are not getting tea.” 

“Bu’ I wan’ some!” Sherlock pouted. “P’ease?”

“No, love. Drink your juice.” John turned back to his tea.

Sherlock’s frown only deepened. He didn’t want juice; he wanted tea. Specifically, he wanted _Daddys’_ tea. He let his cup drop from his hands and hit the floor with a loud thud. 

Now it was John’s turn to look unhappy. “Sherlock.”

“Tea, _p’ease_? P’ease, Daddy? Tea? P’ease, _p’ease_ tea? P’ease?!” 

“I said no.”

“Da’, _p’ease_?!” Sherlock begged…he was growing desperate now. He’d asked nicely, just the way Daddy always told him to, and he still wasn’t getting anywhere. “I _nee’_ it!” 

“ Sherlock, **stop**.” John knew full well that Sherlock could be a persistent little boy when he had his mind set on something, but this was getting ridiculous. 

“Bu’ I _nee’_ it!!” Sherlock whinged again, and reached for John’s cup himself. 

Nope, John was not playing this game. Not with a steaming hot cup in his hands.”Okay, if that’s how it’s going to be…” He put his tea aside and scooted Sherlock off his lap and onto the floor. “You can just stay down there.”

Sherlock gaped up at him, surprised…and then the show _really_ started. “ **NO** , Da’! Up, _I wan’ **up**!_ Up, back up now, p’ease!? Up, back **up** …!” Sherlock turned and tried to push his way back into John’s lap, all reaching arms and pushing legs, never once stopping to take a breath in the midst begging for either tea, or ‘back up’. 

John ignored him, ignored all of it…until the top of Sherlock’s head bumped against the bottom of his tea, nearly upsetting it all over the both of them. “Shit!” John swore as he felt it tip in his hands, and quickly held it out of the way of grasping, clutching hands. Jesus Christ, that had been too close! “Oi!” he snapped over the nonstop whinging,and once again set his tea aside. “You want back in my lap, I’ll put you back in my lap!” John scooted to the edge of his seat, spread his legs and, after taking Sherlock by the shoulders, hauled him up and over his knee, effectively pinning both arms to his sides.  

The sheer speed of it all shocked the little detective into silence…silence that lasted all of two seconds, before he felt John’s hand yanking the back of his nappy down. The panic set in as a wisp of cool air hit his bared backside, and Sherlock began to beg again…but for a completely different reason. “No, don’!…p’ease don’, I sawry, Da’yee, p’ease’top!” he pleaded and tried to wiggle out of John’s grip, to no avail. “P’ease’top, I be good, p’omise! P’ease p’ease p’ease p’ease no no no no no– _ **ow**!_ ”

A sharp smack put an abrupt end to the line of babbling. “When Daddy says ‘no’, he means ‘no’…not ‘keep going until you get what you want’!” John scolded, and lit into Sherlock’s bottom with a flurry of sharp, stinging slaps that took the little detective’s breath away. 

Momentarily, at least. The spanking was well under way and had Sherlock’s bottom turning a good, rosy glow when the pain caught up and overtook the shock it had been to his system, and the little detective began to howl. No matter how much he wriggled, or squirmed, or kicked, there was no getting out of the firm hold John had him in, and soon enough…he simply gave up as smack after burning smack set his backside on fire. 

The spanking was brief, but that didn’t mean that it was any less painful or effective. When he felt Sherlock go limp over his knee, John stopped and left his hand resting against his scorched seat, while the little detective continued to sob. “Are we ready to listen to Daddy now?”  he asked, waiting to see if Sherlock had even heard him. 

“Uh-h-hu-huh,” Sherlock stammered. “N-nn-no, n-no m-mmooore, p-p’eeeasssse!”

That was enough to satisfy John. He let Sherlock go, and allowed him to slide to the floor to nurse his wounds (and his pride).

Sherlock melted into a big, weepy puddle and lay crying on the carpet, while reaching back with one hand to rub some of the sting away. “I, I, I j-jus, I _j-jus’ wan’ned_ _teeeeaaa_ ,”  he wailed. 

_‘Oh, my God…’_ John rolled his eyes and put his head and his hands. Even after all of that, and he was stilll going on about tea! Yeah, and he’d thought Sherlock was persistent before?! This was just…this was a whole new level. 

Despite himself, John began to chuckle. “Sherlock…no, Sherlock, come here, love,” he said and sat up, trying not to laugh in his face. He held his arms out for his completely exasperating, but much cherished little weepy baby. “Come see Daddy.”

Sherlock sat up slowly and tried to wipe the tears away from his face with the heel of his hand. “N-no, n-no m-more?” he stuttered, his chest hitching. 

“No more, sweetheart. Daddy wants to hold.” While John was stooped over and waiting, he went ahead and retrieved Sherlock’s previously abandoned sippy-cup, and stuck it between the cushion and the chair. 

Sherlock crawled over and let John lift him into his lap, where he was tucked into the crook of his arm. Sherlock curled in close, sniffling. 

John smiled, and bent down to kiss his forehead. “You know Daddy didn’t spank you just for wanting tea, don’t you?” 

“N-no?” Sherlock sniffed, blinking up at him. 

“No.” John took Sherlock’s sippy-cup and offered it to him…and this time, the little detective took it. “No, you got spanked because those little beggar-child antics of yours nearly gave us both third degree burns.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes and stared down at his cup, unable to look at John. “Oh,” he said quietly. 

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” John gave him a squeeze. “I don’t mind you askin’, love. I don’t even mind you beggin’…but can we do that without knocking stuff out of my hands, please? The A&E’s going to start charging us rent soon.” 

Sherlock looked back up at him with a watery smile and a quiet giggle. “Yeah,” he said, his voice raspy. 

“That’s not something to be proud of.” John peered down at him with an arched eyebrow. “…Can I finish my tea in peace now?”

Sherlock nodded and, just to show that he would be trustworthy, latched onto his cup and drank his juice, just like a good boy.

John looked skeptical, but decided to take his chances. He picked up his mug back up and took a big sip, then grimaced…

His tea had gone cold. 

“…Can I ha’b some now?”


	14. Busy Bee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "What about tiny baby Jawn getting stung by a bee, because he was trying to pick it up to show Da'? He knows how much Da' likes bees." Sadie: You guys sure love some little Jawn! Poor Sher’yock would be jealous! :p

Jawn was the luckiest little boy in the world. At least he felt that way, when he had the great fortune to notice when the biggest, fattest, fluffiest-looking bumblebee that he’d ever seen slowly buzz through Nana’s open window, land on one of the prettiest red blooms in the flower box sitting on the sill, and begin to fill it’s little leg bags with bright yellow pollen.

He _had_ to show Da’; he would think it was brilliant!

“Da’!” Jawn looked over his shoulder, where Sherlock was on his knees in front of Nana’s refrigerator, attempting to fix the ‘blasted motor’ while Nana herself stood behind his shoulder, tutting over everything. “Come see!” he chattered. “DA’!!!”

“Give me a moment, Jawn,” Sherlock replied without turning around, in the funny-sounding way he did when he was mad, but didn’t want anyone to know it.

‘Cept Jawn knew it. Well…most of the time he did.

Nana was nicer. “He’s almost done, sweetheart,” she said, looking back at Jawn with a smile. “Then you can help Nana bake up some biscuits, yes?”

Jawn pouted and turned back to the flower box, where his new, pudgy little friend was still sitting and rubbing itself. Herself. Jawn remembered Da’ saying something about how all the bees they ever saw were s’posed to be girls. That was prob’ly why they liked flowers so much.

The little bee buzzed her wings, and for a second, Jawn became afraid that she would take off and fly away before Da’ could ever see her!…but no, she didn’t. She only walked to another spot and started rubbing herself again.

Jawn blew out a breath between his lips; that had been close. It would be so sad if Da’ missed seeing the prettiest bee in the world just because he was busy, and it would probl’y make him even grumpier than he already was.

Well, if Da’ wouldn’t come see her…Jawn would just have to take her to see Da’.

He reached out slowly so he wouldn’t scare her off, then cupped his hands around the bottom of the flower, closed them together, and lifted until he felt the bloom pop free from the stem.

He felt her wings brushing the palm of his hand, making him giggle, and he turned around to hurry and show off his little living treasure.

Jawn was halfway to the kitchen when he stopped. And by ‘stopped’, _everything_ stopped; Jawn stopped, Jawn’s giggling stopped, the tickly feeling of the bee’s wings stopped…

…because Jawn felt her stinger stabbing directly in the center of his left palm.

Jawn cried out and flung his hands apart, dropping both the flower and his bee to the ground where it stumbled around drunkenly on the carpet, wings beating furiously. Jawn sank to the ground as well, howling and clutching his hand as a deep, ugly burning sensation spread from his palm out to his fingers.

Before he knew it, both Nana and his Da’ were there at his side, hovering over him and asking him all sorts of questions that he couldn’t hear, nor did he care about when his hand hurt _so_ **_bad_**! All he could do was clutch it and cry while Da’ sat in a chair and scooped Jawn up into his lap, and Nana tried to pry his hand open.

It was no simple feat, but between the two of them, they finally managed to get Jawn’s chubby little fingers outstretched. “Is that a thorn?” she asked Sherlock over the wailing.

Sherlock brought Jawn’s hand close and narrowed his eyes…”No, that’s not a thorn,” he said finally and, with Nana helping hold Jawn still, scraped the thick stinger out of the little boy’s hand with his thumbnail. "Bring me some ice, please?”

Nana scurried off, worrying and fretting, and Sherlock cuddled Jawn close. “What were you doing catching a bee for, little man?” he asked, rubbing his thumb in a circle around Jawn’s palm while applying gentle pressure.

“Sh-sh-show, sh-show y-you,” Jawn stammered in between deep, hitching sobs. 

“Oh, love…” Sherlock sighed. He’d noticed the discarded flower, and just a few inches away, the still body of the now-dead bee. He turned Jawn away, and used his foot to push them both aside, out of sight; now was not the time to remind the little doctor what happened to bees that had to use their stingers. “It was an accident,” he shushed. “You both gave each other a scare, that’s all.”

Nana came back with a small bag of ice and a hand towel and soon, with two people fussing and kissing over him, the worst of the tears abated and all that was left was a snuffly little boy with a slightly swollen hand. “Didn’ mean’a scare her,” he sniffed.

Sherlock lifted Jawn’s ice-wrapped hand to his lips, and kissed the heel of it. “I know. But that’s why it’s best to leave them alone when you come across them, darling…they don’t always know what you’re intending to do with them.”

“Y’yeah,” Jawn answered, and held his hand up for more.

Sherlock chuckled and obliged, kissing the knuckles of each one of Jawn’s fingers. “Leave the bee-hunting to Da’ from now on, hm?”

Jawn nodded quickly. He was in no hurry to make the acquaintance of any more bees for a good, long while.

“Poor love!” Nana cooed, and brushed the hair back out of his eyes and cupped his cheek. “What else can we do?” she asked Sherlock. “Doesn’t it say somewhere tobacco is supposed to help?”

“That’s an old wives tale. Ice is fine.”

“Are you sure–”

“I’m not sacrificing a cigarette for a placebo.”

Nana huffed; that answer was far from satisfactory, moreso when it came to one of her special boys being hurt. “What would make you feel better, sweetheart?”

Jawn thought for a moment; “…Biscuits?” he ventured.

“Oh, yes!” Nana clapped her hands together cheerfully; that, she could do! “You still want to help Nana make them?”

Jawn settled back against his Da’; he didn’t feel up to doing much of anything right now. Well, almost anything. “I help when done.”

“When they’re done?…” Nana puzzled.

Jawn nodded. “I help eat them.”

Sherlock snorted over the sound of Nana’s giggling, and muttered something that Jawn didn’t quite catch about making ‘something else’ sting.


	15. Sibling Rivalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "If prompts are still open, I have one for you--- how about some sort of interaction between Mycroft and little Sherlock? Bonus points if there is brotherly arguing that John has to break up (extra extra bonus points if there's threats of spankings LOL). Please and thank you!"
> 
> Sadie:You have NO idea how much I love it when people request other characters popping in! :) Here we go!

It had been going on for at least ten minutes and, quite frankly, while John was impressed that Mycroft could get a forty-going-on-two year old to sit still for that long, he wasn’t actually that surprised. 

Nothing surprised him about the Holmes’ brothers anymore. 

John didn’t know how the staring contest came about. All he knew was that it had been eerily quiet for he-couldn’t-rightly-recall-how-long before he’d started to wonder why Sherlock was no longer jabbering about the buttons along Mycroft’s new waistcoat and where they’d come from, nor about the technique used to sew them on when he looked up to find the overgrown tyke sitting in his brother’s lap, nearly nose-to-nose, staring him right in the eye. 

John quietly set the timer on his phone, and sat back to watch. 

Sherlock continued to stare intently at his older brother, unblinking, still as a statue…save for an occasional flutter from the dummy in his mouth. 

Mycroft stared right back, equally as dilligent, and for a moment, John considered that they were not, in fact, having a staring contest, but were involved in an all-consuming war of the minds on a far-away, unseen plane of existence. 

Sherlock stared. 

Mycroft stared. 

The clock ticked. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and stared. 

Mycroft took a deep breath, stared…then crossed his eyes and pressed his lips together and puffed out his cheeks like a trumpet player.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide as he startled back from his brother but, even from across the room, John could already see the slow, sneaky smile playing from behind his dummy as the little detective started to break down into giggles, just as his brother had planned. 

“I saw that.”

Quick as a flash, the face was gone. “You saw nothing.”

John only grinned back at him.

“In any case, I won.”

The giggling stopped almost instantly. “Nu- _uh!_ ” Sherlock protested, glaring at him with all the impotent, infant fury he could muster.

“You closed your eyes.”

“Did n’ah!”

“Did so.”

Sherlock pouted, and shook his head.

Mycroft smirked, and nodded.

Sherlock’s chest puffed out indignantly and John braced himself for the inevitable, ear-splitting shriek that was surely brewing just beneath the adorable, baby-faced surface, when Sherlock decided to surprise the both of them…and turned his dummy into a projectile missile by spitting it right in Mycroft’s face hard enough to make an audible ** _THACK!_** as it hit him between the eyes.

Mycroft cried out and reeled back as he reached up to rub the sizable red mark that it had left. “ _Sherlock!!!_ ”

“You c’osed your eyes,” the little detective sneered back.

John rolled his eyes and picked up his phone…huh, fifteen minutes before they’d lit into each other. That was a rec-…well, not necessarily a record, but it was at least in the top ten.

 _‘Nope, not surprising at all_ ,’ John thought, then sighed as he heaved himself out of his chair to go break up the War of the Whingers before it ended with a little nappy-wearing someone in tears.


	16. A Real Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "How about little Sherlock makes a major mess with an experiment and gets a good smacking? Perhaps the wooden spoon comes out again! Been a while since John used it, I think. Thanks for considering my prompt! "

“What. The Hell. Is That.” 

“I don’t…” Sherlock paused, “…honestly know.”

John gagged and covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and turned away before his breakfast could be revisited all over the lino, and wondered how something like…like _that_ , could even exist. 

‘That’, being the bright orange, sickly sweet and vaguely tarty-smelling mould that had taken over the second shelf in their refrigerator, and was creeping it’s wretched way up the back wall. 

Christ, it was just…yeah, he hadn’t had a need to open the fridge in awhile (more like the past week…maybe closer to two weeks) what with never being home long enough to have a proper meal other than take-away, but still! How was it even possible for something like ‘that’ to grow that much in that amount of time?! 

Sherlock was still bent over with his head stuck in the fridge, examining it. John didn’t know how he managed to not retch at the smell. “Clean it up, NOW.”

Sherlock glared at him over his shoulder.”Why me?!”

“Because I’m not the one always growing ‘experiments’ in there.”

Sherlock sneered; “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“I don’t care. You know the drill. Bucket. Hot, soapy water. Scrub brush. Now.”

“It’s _not_ mine.” Sherlock turned back and leaned in further, looking for the source of the…growth. “It’s coming from underneath this pile of foil; I don’t wrap mine in fo- _OW!_ ”

A sharp rap against his bent-over backside cut him off, and as an awful burning sensation began to radiate from the point of impact, the detective shot straight up and reached back to cover his arse as he whipped around to face a very dangerous-looking John, who was still brandishing a long-handled, equally dangerous-looking wooden spoon. 

“You…are going to clean that up,” John said, pointing the spoon at Sherlock’s face. 

“But it’s not my– _ah!!_ ” Sherlock cried out again as the spoon lashed out again, faster than his eye could see, and cracked against the back of his thigh. He took a step back, keeping his targeted area out of John’s range. “It’s not mine!” he said again, the pitch of his voice becoming strained…damn, that thing _hurt!_

John took another step forward and, before Sherlock could retreat any further, snagged Sherlock’s elbow in an iron-tight grip. “No! More! Excusese!” he said, punctuating each word with a solid whap against Sherlock’s bum, wherever his hands weren’t covering. Sherlock yelped and danced around in a frantic circle, desperate to get away, but unable to pull out of John’s grip. “ _I_ _didn’ do’it!!!_ ” he wailed, tears stinging his eyes.

Around and around they went, with sharp cracks from the spoon and howl’s of protest, with Sherlock leading them in a rather painful parody of a Maypole dance as he hopped from foot-to-foot with each searing whack. 

Not even Ms. Hudson, as familiar with her boy’s antics as she was, could ignore the heartbreaking pleas for mercy…especially considering they’d conveniently left their door open for her and the whole bloody neighborhood to hear. “What is going _on_?!?” she shouted as she ascended the steps and happened upon the arduous scene. 

John landed another punishing smack the Sherlock’s bum and stopped, mildly out of breath and breathing hard while he held fast to the little detective’s arm. “Take a look in the refrigerator and see for yourself; maybe you can get a better answer out of this one than I can,” he huffed, glowering up at Sherlock. 

Now that the assault against the delicate portion of his person had paused, Sherlock rubbed his backside like a madman and was near in hysterics while he pleaded at his Nana. “I-I-I d-did’n, d-did-dn’ d-do it,” he blubbered, tears coursing down his cheeks. 

Ms. Hudson raised her eyebrow and went over to the refrigerator to see what all the fuss was about. She opened the door, and stared for a moment. “John…”

John swatted Sherlock again, causing a high-pitched shriek. “Don’t you worry,” he said, keeping his eye squarely on his little troublemaker. “This one’s going to clean up his mess, whether or not he can sit down to do it!…”

“JOHN.”

John finally turned to look at her. “What!?”

“…That’s the half a pineapple I gave you, three weeks ago.”

Everything went quiet. Even Sherlock stopped his sobbing, but continued to sniffle. “…It is?” John asked, uncertainty taking the edge off his voice. 

Ms. Hudson turned to face them, her hands on her hips. “It is.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock pulled his elbow out of John’s grip again, and this time, John let him. “T-tol’ you,” he sniffled sullenly, sticking out his bottom lip and pouting at him. 

John looked away and gave a sheepish laugh; “Guess I, uh, owe you an apology,” he said, and coughed. 

Sherlock kept glaring and rubbing his backside. 

Shit. He’d _really_ stepped in it this time. “Sherlock, love, I’m sor– **OW!** ”

Quick as a flash that defied her years, Ms. Hudson, Nana, had slipped up behind John, jerked the spoon from his hand, and cracked him across the arse with it. John whirled around, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Oi!…”

“ ‘Oi’, nothing!” Ms. Hudson brandished the spoon in his face, a mere fraction of an inch from his nose, making him go cross-eyed. “ _You_ go clean _your_ mess, before _you_ can’t sit!”

“But I _- **yeeeow!**_ ” John squealed as five more rapid swats met the crease of his thigh, and he darted away. “Alright, alright, sorrysorrysorry!”

Nana stood and gave his the evil-eye as he scurried away to fetch all the cleaning supplies, then turned to the detective, who was now looking smug but tearful, and took his hand. “You come with me, dear…I was just setting up for tea.”

Sherlock took her hand and toddled along after his Nana and, just as they were leaving through the door, looked back to see John carrying a bucket with several rags and bottles of cleanser in it. He waited until he caught John’s eye, smiled…then stuck out his tongue and made a great, big ‘ **PTHHHHHBBBBT!** ’-noise at him before following his Nana down the stairs for tea and biscuits. 

John glared after him, cheeks burning, then sighed and started to fill the bucket with hot water. 

Why did these things always happen to _him_?


	17. Stranger Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "My prompt is just 4 words - Daddy John: Tickle Monster"
> 
> Sadie:Oh boy howdy this my jam. :P

 

 

 

It had been quiet.

Far too quiet.

John looked up from his mac, where he’d been engrossed with video after video of ‘mysterious’ disappearances (it was baffling; they were so obviously clickbait-y and fake, but the end of one led to another, which led to opening two more tabs, which led to clicking more vids on the sidebars of both, and before he knew it, John had been completely immersed in the weird side of youtube for the better part of two hours), and found himself alone in the sitting room with an obnoxiously loud, cartoon feature playing on the telly.

A particular little nappy-wearing someone was nowhere to be seen.

…Shit.

“Sherlock?” No answer.

John shut his computer and put it aside. “Sherlock, sweetheart? Where’d you go, love?” he called out, keeping his voice even. Nothing had happened ( ~~yet~~ ), no catastrophies, no one was crying ( ~~yet~~ )…no, there was nothing to worry about ( ~~yet~~ ).

There was no answer. John walked through the flat, calling Sherlock’s name and trying to coax him out. “Sheeeerlock…” He thought if he made it sound like a game, the little detective would be more likely to come out.

As a matter of fact, it could be a game…Little Sherlock loved hide-and-seek, after all.

But as tempting as John tried to sound, he ended up with nothing. No muffled giggles, no pattering feet…nothing in the kitchen, nor the bathroom, same with both bedrooms (and he looked under both beds AND out both windows!).

If John didn’t know any better, he would say he was alone in the flat.

…Oh, shit.

John hurried back through the flat,forcing himself not to run and telling the note of panic that was poking at the back of his head to shut the fuck up while also telling himself that no, there was no way Sherlock would up and leave the flat by himself, not when he was little, that even as a little he still had _some_ sense of self-preservation for his narrow little arse, and….

John rushed into the sitting room, and came to a complete stop.

He wasn’t alone after all.

The sitting room was no longer empty.

And neither was his chair, which now had a little padded, curly-haired dummy-sucker curled up in it, calmly watching the animated movie that was still playing.

John took a deep breath and sighed in relief, then chuckled…it was fine. Everything was fine; he’d been right.

The doctor walked over to the chair and stood in front of the little detective, blocking his view, and put his hands on his hips. He cleared his throat; “Found yourself a seat, did you?” he asked, looking down at Sherlock with a straight face.

Sherlock looked up at him and blinked, then grinned around his dummy. “Yesh I ha’b!” he said proudly, and wiggled on his bum.

John was able to hold it together and _not_ melt into a puddle of warm goo at the sight…but only just, because that was the cutest damned thing he’d ever seen. “Daddy thought a monster had gotten you,” he said in a very serious manner, and raised his eyebrow.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. “A mon’ser?”

“You didn’t know there’s a monster on the loose?”

Sherlock shook his head quickly.

“But there is! A great, big…” John grinned wickedly and held up his hands like a mad scientist proud of his creation, “…TICKLE MONSTER!” he crowed, and dove onto the little detective for the attack, going right for those extra ticklish ribs.

Sherlock shrieked and tried to scramble out of the chair but found himself blocked in by Daddy and his reachy, grabby arms! He tried to protect himself from the onslaught, but they were everywhere…tickling his feets, his tummy, his armpits, his neck, his legs; no matter how much he flailed and kicked, there they were! “No mon’ser, NO MON’SER, ‘TOPPIT! NO MON’SER!” he squeal-laughed over John’s monster growls.

John didn’t stop until he was just as out-of-breath as Sherlock. “Can Daddy…have his seat…back now?” he panted, grinning broadly.

Sherlock lay on his back, breathing heavily in between phantom giggles, his hands clamped onto John’s wrists in a feeble attempt to hold them off. “No… more…mon’ser?” he huffed.

“That depends on whether you get your thieving little bum out of my seat.”

Sherlock thought about it, and while John was wondering if he had enough left in him for another round, the little detective nodded.

“Good lad. Monster needs a break after that, anyway…you gave him a good one in the ribcage.” With Sherlock still holding his wrists, John lifted him up into a sitting position, then hauled him out of his chair. “I’ll make you a deal; you can sit in my lap and watch the rest of your movie, how about that?”

Sherlock nodded as he was stood on his feet; “Y’ah, soun’s goo–” The little detective stopped in mid-sentence, and looked down at himself. “…Uh-oh.”

“ ‘Uh-oh’? What’s ‘uh-oh’?…” John followed Sherlock’s gaze, and found what ‘uh-oh’ was.

“…After a change, then.”


	18. The Brothers Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Idk if prompts are still open for Ficlets, but if they are, can we get some Daddy John with a pair of little Holmes boys? I love your fics btw."
> 
> Sadie:I can’t really picture Mycroft as a Little myself personally, but this prompt actually gave me an idea…so maybe this can qualify? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Hope you like it, anon!

 

 

 

“Yes, and what is it that _you_ want?”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft ignored his name and the tone of voice it was used in, and continued to stare down at his feet with a not-even-remotely-veiled sneer curling his lip.  
“Well, why is he looking at me like that?”

“He wants you to play with him.”

The sneer deepened. “I don’t ‘play’.”

John raised an eyebrow. “…Seriously? You’re going to try to give me that, with a whole closet full of board games here, and you with a gameroom that at least 80% of the people on the internet would sell their grandmother for?”

Mycroft continued to scowl. He didn’t have an answer for that. He didn’t like not having an answer. He didn’t know that John knew about the gameroom. “You’ve got a big mouth,” he told his little brother, who was still sitting at his feet.

Sherlock didn’t answer…not verbally, at least, as Mycroft preferred, but hummed at him questioningly. Then he sat up on his knees and held out the lump of what looked like dirty, purple clay in his hands, offering it to him. 

“Aw, lookit,” John grinned, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. “Go on, Mycroft…play with him!”

“Games are one thing,” Mycroft admitted, albeit begrudgingly. He sniffed and sat back in his chair. “But I don’t do ‘crafts’.”

John rolled his eyes; this was not a worthwhile argument, and damned if he was going to let him spoil his baby brother’s good mood. “C’mere, love,” he said, reaching for Sherlock. “Mycroft’s being a pain in the…bum. I’ll do playdough with you.”

Sherlock wilted as John scooped him up into his lap from behind.

“ ‘Playdough’?” The name sounded as disgusting as it looked. “It’s clay.”

“Not quite.” John took the lump and split it in half, keeping one for himself and giving the other back to Sherlock, who slapped his on the table and began to mash it flat.

“It looks like it.”

“It’s different,” John said…there was a bit of an edge to his voice. But he was determined no to let the elder Holmes boy spoil anything with his smarmy attitude. “It’s…” He tried to think of a good reason, one that Mycroft wouldn’t rip to condescending shreds. “…softer.”

Mycroft stared at him flatly.

“And more colorful.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And it’s easier to sculpt.”

“So…child-friendly clay.”

John sighed as he worked the clay– _playdough_ , in his hands to soften it. “Sure, Mycroft.”

Sherlock peeled his flattened purple pancake off of the table, then pinched it back into a lump and handed it to John with a grunt.

“What are you handing it to me for, hm?”

Sherlock tried to mash it into John’s fist with the other half, only succeeding with a small part…the rest was moulded to John’s hand.

“I take it you want me to do something with it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“What d’you want?”

Sherlock pressed his hands together and made a rubbing motion.

“A ball?”

Sherlock nodded again, excitedly.

“Ohhh, no.” John laughed, peeling it away. “I’m not rolling balls for you anymore…mine always come out egg-shaped, then you get cross with me for hours.”

Mycroft, who had been (surprisingly) quiet as he sat off to the side, watching, suddenly held out his hand. “I can roll one.”

Two sets of eyes sat and blinked at him, and he began to wonder why he’d opened his mouth. But before he could withdraw the offer, Sherlock was scraping all of his playdough together and shoving it across the table at his brother. “P’eathe!” he said, his dummy slurring his words. “P’eathe, My’coff!”

Mycroft wordlessly took the cl– ** _playdough_** , and began to roll it between his palms.

John bounced Sherlock on his knee, beaming like an idiot.

“…Shut up.”

“Didn’t say a word.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Within the next hour, Sherlock not only had an entire army of miniature snowmen (all made with a trio of perfectly rounded spheres), but he had switched over to his brother’s lap. “What now?” Mycroft asked, resting his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder as he gazed over their battalion of  handmade ball-men.

Sherlock grinned and reached for one of the smaller snowmen on the outer flank ( ‘pawns’, Mycroft referred to them as)…then slapped his hand down over it, smashing it flat as he giggled like mad.

John roared with laughter at the look on Mycroft’s face as each and every one of his painstakingly crafted army were smashed by a maniacally cackling toddler, who was taking great pleasure in his destruction.

“That’s the thing about playdough, Mycroft,” John said, chuckling and wiping the tears from his eyes as the other man shot him a withering glare.

“Smash it down all you want, but at least you can always build it back up.”


	19. Lazy Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt(s):"Hi! I saw prompts were still open, so i was wondering if you could write some little Sherlock and Jawn together? Maybe Mycroft took them to the park one evening so they could play? I don't know, i just love it when those two are little together ❤ "
> 
> "If you're still doing prompts, what about little Sherlock and Jawn spending some time with nana hudson (or uncle mycroft and greg)? If you want to, of course."
> 
> "Are you still doing prompts? If so (and someone may have done this one recently?), what about little Sherlock and Jawn spending the day with Mycroft and Greg (brownie points for fluff and adorableness:))"
> 
> Sadie: I'm fairly sure that these all came from the same person (which is totally fine! If you don't think your prompt went through, I absolutely do NOT mind if you send it again!), so I bundled them all together. If one of these is your prompt and you'd like a separate story, feel free to request it again!

Never again. 

Never again was Mycroft ever, ever leaving them three of them alone to their own devices ever again. 

Ever.

“Wha’?” Greg asks, looking up at his peevish lover from where he lay stretched out on the couch.

Mycroft glared down at him, disapprovingly. “You were supposed to be watching them.”

“Well, uh, I _am_ watching, them, love.” Greg nodded his head down at the little curly-haired detective lazily cuddling in his lap, while his tiny blond counterpart played cheerfully on the floor in front of them. “Kinda hard to miss’em.”

“You knew what I meant.”

“You told me to watch them; I am watching them.”

Mycroft stood with his hands on his hips. “The two of you have been lying there like a loaf all afternoon.”

At this, Sherlock happily (and perhaps just to be a little bit spiteful) snuggled himself into the crook of Greg’s neck even closer than he had been before. Greg kissed the top of his head and gazed back up at Mycroft with a broad, shit-eating grin. “How you figure?”

“Don’t get smart with me; you’ll lose.” Mycroft was not impressed. “I told you to keep them busy.”

“Jawn’s plenty busy.”

Mycroft was not impressed. He looked over at Jawn, who was indeed being kept busy by a battery operated toy. Jawn squealed again as a ball with a faux-animal tail bounced and rolled across the room, and scurried after it. “I meant keep them BOTH busy.”

Greg stifled a yawn and stretched, then rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock’s back. At least there was one Holmes brother who liked to cuddle with him.  And by God, Greg Lestrade was going to take all the cuddling he could get…if not from one, then the other. “We get plenty of exercise at work; don’t worry ‘bout it.”   

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the toy that had just skittered under the other couch on the opposite side of the room. “…Is that a cat toy?” he asked, watching Jawn lay flat out on his belly to try and fish it out. 

Greg closed his eyes and grinned. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Where did a cat toy come from?” 

“Cat th’tore,” Sherlock piped up around his dummy, his fingers playing with the small wisp of chest hair that had poked out between the buttons of Greg’s shirt. Greg chuckled, then cracked an eye open to peek up at Mycroft. 

Mycroft was not amused. 

Greg knew that look. It was a look that said ‘-If-you-ever-want-your-cock-sucked-again-’… Greg cleared his throat and gave a half-hearted swat to Sherlock’s padded bottom. “Don’t smart off at your brother.” 

Sherlock whinged and wiggled his backside, then his his face against Greg’s neck and mumbled. 

“What did he say?”

Greg bit his lip in a poor effort not to smile, and shook his head. 

“Gregory.”

“…He said, ‘At least we didn’t put a bell on him.’“

Mycroft pinched his lips together and inhaled deeply through his nose, then…

Across the room, Jawn began to kick his feet against the floor and squawk angrily. He couldn’t reach his toy, and it was beginning to piss him off in the only way a two year old could get pissed off–hugely. Mycroft sighed, then batted the side of Greg’s head. “Get up. Both of you. We’re going to the pet store, then the park.”

The announcement was met with dual groans. Greg squinted up at him; “Pet store? You’re not gonna take it back, are you? Jawn actually likes it.”

Mycroft smiled down at him. “Oh no, love…you’re quite right. He does like it, and that wouldn’t be fair.”

Greg waited for the catch…because when Mycroft smiled, there was always a catch. When none was offered, Greg asked, “So…why?”

“We’re going back so I can buy the both of _you_ bells and keep you from molding into part of my furniture. Now get your lazy arses up and get moving.”


	20. Just Another Rainy Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've really missed doing these, you guys.
> 
> **Prompt**  
> "Are you still doing prompts? If so could I please request little Sherlock and Jawn playing in the rain?"

 

 

Mycroft stood in the back doorway of his home, overlooking the yard and watching as a pair of rough-and-tumble boys ran and squealed and jumped and splashed through the puddles made by the warm, steady rain. 

Greg walked up behind him, and handed him a steaming mug. “Well, the hats were pointless,” he chuckled, taking a sip of his own. 

Mycroft smirked. “Tends to happen when you stare directly up into the rain.”

“They’re going to be sicker’n dogs, Myc. And smell like them, too.”

“That’s a myth.”

“What? Wet dogs don’t smell?”

“Getting sick from the rain, you berk.”

“Oh. Really? Happened to me when I was a lad.”

“Then you had already been in contact with the virus. It wasn’t the rain.”

Greg grunted, then laughed out loud as a loud squeal and a chorus of “NO NO NO NO JAWN NO!” cut across the yard. “…Annnd there go the hats.”

“They were pointless, anyway–DO NOT **THROW** THE MUD, JAWN HAMISH!”

“That was a good shot, though, for a handful of muck.”

“It was. Don’t encourage it.”

“At least Sherlock didn’t have his mouth open. And there go the coats.”

“Should make for a cozy naptime. Did you get their blankets?”

“Every blanket in the house is accounted for and ready. The whole sitting room is one big squishy nest.”

“Lovely.” 

There was another loud scuffle and a big shout of “ **GER’OFF ME!** ”, and the two mens’ attention shot back to the boys.

Greg was doubled over in loud, ugly laughter as Mycroft stepped forward and clapped his hands sharply; “Sherlock–Sherlock, **NO-NO!** Get off of him! Put that down!”

“Wh-what, what is that?!” Greg stuttered in bewteen belly laughs. 

“That’s a worm. SHERLOCK, drop it!…NO, NOT ON HIM!”

Greg slumped down against the doorframe, clutching his belly and shaking. “O-oh, oh m-my God,” he wheezed. 

“Stop laughing,” Mycroft said, though his own lips were twitching in an effort not to smile. “Don’t encourage this.”

A loud “ **EW, NO**!” interrupted them. 

“SHERLOCK!


	21. Birthday Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt**  
> "Prompt!!!! Today (Jan 6th) is Sherlock's birthday!!!! How do they celebrate??? ^_^"

 

 

 

“You know, you could’a been little, too,” Greg said, licking a smear of yellow frosting off the side of his hand. 

John shook his head. “Nah, it’s his day…I like being Daddy on his day.” He picked up and placed another tiny fondant bee on top of one cupcake, and delicately pressed it into the icing without disturbing the shape.

“How did we get roped into this task, by the way?”

“Hm?”

“I’ve never even cracked an egg into a bowl before, and here I am piping icing for two dozen cupcakes.”

“Because the baby asked for cupcakes, and you love the baby.” John stepped back to stretch the crick out of his neck after being hunched over, and looked down at the rows of tiny, pastel-yellow cakes that lines the counter. “And not a bad effort. Where’d the bees come from?”

“Mycroft.”

“Mycroft made them?”

“Yeah. Was up until 2 this morning and made loads.”

“Where’d he learn how to do that?”

“He found Pinterest.”

“Seriously? Not bad.” John picked up one of the cupcakes nearest him and held it up. “Like, professional level. Maybe he should do this for a living.”

“GOD, no. He was a demon. You should see the ones he threw away because they didn’t turn out right.”

“Jesus.”

“It was a black and yellow massacre.”

“They are cute, though. Almost a shame that they’re gonna be eat–oh, shit.”

“What?”

“Sherlock won’t eat them.”

“What? But that’s what he asked for–”

“The bees. They have faces. He won’t eat them. He’d feel too bad.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope.”

Greg stared at him for a moment before looking down at the rows of cupcakes. “Oh, shit.”


	22. Adventures in Babysitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt**: "Prompts are backkkkk? Been thinking about Greg babysitting little Jawn?"

 

 

“Jawn? Where’d you go, monkey?”

Greg looked up from the plate of sandwiches he’d been making for his and Jawn’s lunch, and glanced around the kitchen. 

No Jawn to be seen. 

But Greg had a pretty good idea of where he was. 

And he was right…he’d have to brag about that a bit later, after Mycroft and Sherlock returned.

He found Jawn was back in the main foyer, as expected, watching gloomily out of one of the big, floor-to-ceiling windows that were on either side of the front door, his nose and forehead pressed against the glass.

Greg sighed. “They’ll be back soon, love.”

“…I wan’ned a’go, too.”

Greg stepped up behind the melancholy little doctor and put his hands on his shoulders. “I know. But they couldn’t take you this time, pet.”

Jawn looked up and met Greg’s gaze in the reflection. “Why?”

“Because it’s going to be a terribly boring meeting full of stuffy people using big words that only Mycroft and your Daddy would understand.”

Jawn blinked at him, his breath momentarily fogging up the window, then dropped his gaze and went back to staring at the empty drive outside. Greg thought he saw a slight wobble in his bottom lip. 

_‘Shit._ ’ “Besides, they needed you to help keep me out of trouble,” Greg said, giving Jawn’s shoulder a squeeze. “Mycroft said I can’t be trusted by myself.”

No reaction. 

Dammit. He was in danger of losing his ‘fun Uncle’ status; if Sherlock came back to a whingy, crying Jawn, he would never hear the end of it. “C’mon…you wouldn’t want to see your dear old Uncle Greg get smacked for making a mess in the kitchen, do y’ah?” Greg tweaked Jawn’s ear playfully. “I need supervision!”

Jawn, who obviously hadn’t been expecting it, squeaked and scrunched his shoulder, pulling away from Greg. “Noooo,” he said, but Greg still caught a hint of a smile in his reflection. 

“You would, wouldn’t you. Traitor.”

Jawn turned and tried to pout up at him, and failed. Instead, a devious little smirk played upon his lips. “G’eg made a funny noise when My’coff smack ‘im o’vver night.”

Well. At least he’d kept him from crying. Greg cleared his throat; “You saw that, hm?”

“I see y’ots o’b things.”

Greg took his chance while Jawn was distracted and herded him back towards the kitchen.“You’re nosy, just like your Da’.”

“Is called ‘obser’vin’.”

“It’s called ‘not mindin’ your business’.”

“Tha’s the fun par’d.”

Greg snorted. Sherlock was rubbing off on this one. “Well, we’ll still have fun and keep Greg out of trouble at the same time, how about that.”

“Where’s the fun par’d?”

“…You know, you can go back to watching out the window, kid.”


	23. Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt**: "I have a prompt, if you're up to it. I know you write the boys around the age of two, but what if John regressed even smaller one day, like a /baby/ baby, and Sherlock got to be the big brother for a day? Just a random idea should you want to do it."

 

“My’coff?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up at his big brother from the floor. “Why, um, why is Jawn…” He looked back down at the extremely regressed man laying on a pile of blankets next to him, chewing an infant’s squishy, fabric block, then turned back to Mycroft. “Why is Jawn so, um, so qui’id?”

Mycroft pushed his chair back from his desk, stood up, and came over to them. He stooped over Jawn, gazing down at him, then reached and gently took the block from his hands and gave it a small shake in front of the little doctor’s nose, making it jingle. “Because he’s a very tiny little baby today, isn’t he?” he said with a fond smile playing on his lips. 

Jawn responded with a big, toothy grin and a happy gurgle. 

Sherlock watched, fascinated. Jawn was _never_ this tiny. Never tinier than him. “A y’ittle baby?” he asked, crawling closer. 

“Gentle,”Mycroft reminded him, and then handed Sherlock the jingly block. “Can you be a good big brother and play with him while I warm a bottle?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his mouth open in a ‘O’ of surprise. “Big br’ovver?” he asked, his voice soft with mild awe. He’d never been a big brother before. 

“Yes, a big brother.” Mycroft stood up and ruffle the front of Sherlock’s hair. “Would you like to give him his bottle when I return?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he beamed up at his brother. “Y’ah, p’ease!!” he babbled, returning his attention back to Jawn. “I do i’d!!”

“Then play nicely…I’ll be in the kitchen if he begins to cry.” Mycroft  made his way out of the room, but stopped just on the other side of the doorway, out of sight, and peered back in…

Sherlock had picked up a different soft block from the pile nearby, and was squeezing it to make it squeak in Jawns’ face right before pulling it away as the little doctor reached for it, kicking his feet and giggling.

Mycroft waited until Jawn finally caught on to the game and succeeded in grabbing Sherlock by the wrist with a clumsy hand, making Sherlock cheer “Yay, Jawn di’ i’d! You di’ i’d!”, before he turned away to go make the tiny doctor a bottle. 

Mycroft smirked; of course Sherlock would be a good big brother. He had, after all, learned from the best.


	24. Following Instructions-nsfw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Prompt***: "Everyone's prompts are so wholesome, but I'm gross so I'd love something more on the sexually explicit side of things ... Johnlock or involving Greg or Molly or whatever

 

 

 

“Slowly, Jawn, slowly…don’t rush.”

“Like this?” Jawn touched the vibrator to the front of Sherlocks’ nappy again, making the little detective gasp sharply and then throw his head back against Greg’s shoulder, moaning. 

“Very good, just like that.” Greg grinned like the cat who’d caught the canary, and gave Sherlocks’ exposed neck a kiss. He held the man spread-eagle in his lap, arms pinned behind his back, thigh splayed over his own thighs, wearing nothing but a nappy and an expression of blissful agony. 

A devious little doctor in similar dress knelt on the floor between their legs, taking massive, rock-hard pleasure in torturing his captured companion with a heavy duty vibrator, rubbing it slowly up and down the front of his bulging nappy. 

Jawn giggled darkly as Sherlock groaned again and arched his back, trying to push himself against the source of the vibration, but Greg held him firmly in place. “No-no-no,” Greg chided, and clucked his tongue. “Good little boys have to ask first…and you _are_ a good little boy, aren’t you? My good, beautiful little boy,” he murmured in Sherlocks’ ear as he nuzzled his nose into his dark, sweat-damp hair, and took a deep breath…

He could smell the desperation. The torment.

Sherlocks’ breath came in quick little pants; music to Greg’s ears. “G-goo’, g-good b-boy,” he stammered. “I, I’m a g-good bo _oo **oOOOOOOHHHGOOOOODDDAAAAMMMMMIT!!!**_ ”

Greg’s head snapped down…Jawn had somehow managed to work the vibrator right inside the leghole of Sherlock’s nappy and while Greg had to applaud the initiative, he didn’t want their game to end so…quickly. “Jawn, no-no!”

Jawn instantly pulled the vibrator out and his it behind his back, while Sherlock keened at the loss. 

“What did I say?” Greg scolded, trying to remain serious while Sherlock rocked and rutted his hips in his lap. “I said slowly, didn’t I?”

Jawn pouted, and nodded.

“Then follow directions, or you don’t get a turn.”

Jawn looked stricken. “But I want to play with his bum, too!”

“Then be a good boy for Greg and follow instructions.” Greg switched Sherlocks’ wrists to one hand, then reached around and gave the front of his nappy a good, hard squeeze, making him moan in a gorgeously pained way. 

“Now, do it again…slowly.”


	25. Tiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Prompt***: "can you write one where Sherlock is very regressed or another john one? I have a big soft spot for that type of regression. Thank you so so much"

 

 

 

If there was one thing John loved about Sherlock’s littlespace (and there were _loads_ of things he loved about it), it was a Tiny day. 

Tiny days, where Sherlock was so small as to be near pre-verbal, where John could sit or lay him anywhere and, as long as he kept within eyesight, the little detective would stay put and babble quietly with whatever toy he had in reach. 

Today, was a Tiny day. 

John was in the kitchen, quietly making a simple lunch for himself after laying Sherlock in the floor of the sitting room for a nap (Tiny Sherlock had a tendency to roll, and previous experiences involving the couch and a sizable goose egg popping up on his poor little forehead suggested the floor being the safest place to put him). It hadn’t been long since he’d dozed off, and John had just managed to finish making his sandwich and sit down at the table, when he began to hear little sounds of distress coming from the other room.

John frowned; those weren’t Sherlock’s usual noises. Not even when he was Tiny. He put his sandwich down, pushed his chair back, and got up to go check on his little one. 

Sherlock was still where he’d left him, splayed out on his back on top of the pile of soft blankets John always laid out for his Tiny days…but he wasn’t sleeping as peacefully as he had been a few minutes ago. 

The tiny detective was obviously dreaming, and it didn’t look like it was anything pleasant. His arms and legs would twitch every so often, and even from across the room, John could see his eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids while he mumbled and made low squeaking noises that ended in whimpers…the poor thing had even spit his dummy out, and had somehow managed to knock it down near his feet. 

“Sherlock…” John knelt down and lightly stroked Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb. “Sherlock, sweetheart, wake up.”

It took two more tries, and John gently shaking his shoulder before Sherlock startled awake, his eyes popping open wide and unfocused as he looked about the room. 

“Shhh, hey…look, Daddy’s here, it’s alright. Look, muffin, it’s me…right here.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, still appearing disoriented until he turned his head and his gaze finally settled on John. The look of panic ebbed away, and he gave John a faint smile. 

John smiled back. “Hi, baby.”

The smile could have lasted for an entire lifetime and it still wouldn’t have been long enough for John, but it still faded much too quickly as Sherlock apparently remembered that he’d been having a nightmare; the smile faded and he reached for John, his chin dimpling as his eyes began to well up with tears. 

“Aw, no…did my little baby have a bad dream,” John cooed as he helped Sherlock sit up and then held him to his chest. “That’s all it was, sweetheart. Just a bad dream.” He carded his fingers through Sherlocks’ curls and cradled the back of his head as he rocked him, right there on the floor, and kissed his damp little forehead. 

Sherlock tucked his arms in between them and sucked his thumb while he lay there, sniffling. 

“Poor baby. Do you want Daddy to make you a bottle?” 

Sherlock nodded, but the moment John started to pull away and stand up, he let out a weak, strangled cry, and John knew he wasn’t going anywhere at that particular moment. 

“Alright, we’ll wait a little bit first,” he said, and continued to rock his little one. 

~*~*~*~

…He still loves Sherlock’s Tiny days.


	26. Breastfeeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Prompt***: "Ummm... Aunt Irene breastfeeding a tiny Sherlock???? >.

 

 

“Oh, pet,” the woman cooed down at the overgrown infant in her lap. “What’s made you so fussy today, hm.”

Irene tried the bottle again, but the moment it touched Sherlock’s lips he whinged and turned his head away, sending droplets of milk spraying across his cheek. 

“You don’t want it?” She gently wiped them away with the pad of her thumb. “You cried, I changed you…then you cried again, so I put you down with all of your toys…you weren’t happy with that either, so I’ve got you in my lap with a nice, warm bottle, and you’re _still_ not happy. What is Auntie doing wrong, dearest?”

Sherlock whimpered and pouted up at her, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. 

Irene smiled. “Yes, yes, I know, such a sad little baby you are,” she tutted, tapping her finger against his lips. “But I still don’t know what you’re after, pet.”

Irene didn’t expect him to answer. She hadn’t gotten more than a squeak or a squawk out of him all day, and while it had been a welcome change at first, it did present her with a new sort of challenge. 

She also didn’t expect him to latch onto her fingertip, and start suckling. 

Her eyes widened, and her lips parted into a small ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh,” she gasped. “So _that’s_ what you’re after.”

Irene took one of the small pillows beside her on the couch and placed it behind his head, letting him lie back while she undid the buttons along the front of her blouse.

Sherlock watched with a wide-eyed, infantine gaze as she opened her top and reached into the cup of her bra, pushing it down to expose her breast. Then, she used her arm  to replace the pillow and cradled the baby detective’s head, drawing him to her. 

She gave another small gasp as she felt him latch on, and felt the pull of his tongue against her nipple. “Sorry, sweetheart…Auntie wasn’t expecting this part of the service. You won’t be getting anything this time.”

Sherlock only closed his eyes and nuzzled her breast with his nose, giving a quiet hum of satisfaction. 

Irene stroked the hollow of his cheek with her finger, watching the motion of his lips and jaw. 

“…I suppose that could change, with enough time and patience.”


	27. Daddy's Monkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Prompt***: "Please consider: Sherlock spending some quiet time with his baby, maybe feeding him or cradling him as he falls asleep and whispering sweet nothings to the Little one (and maybe... Uses baby talk to talk to Jawn? 'tis my weakness.) Thank u for your consideration"

 

 

 

“Where’s Daddy’ little Monkey?”

Jawn looked around his blanketed space on the floor…he looked to his left, then to his right, then tilted his head back to look behind him, nearly toppling over before looking back at Sherlock with wide, attentive eyes, and shrugging.

“ _Wheeeerrrrreeeee’s_ Daddy’s Monkey?” Sherlock, who had been sitting opposite of him on the other side of the blanket, got up onto all fours. “ _Wheeeeerrrrreeee’s_ Daddy’s Monkey?!” he asked again and started to sloooooooooowly crawl across the floor to Jawn, pausing every so often like a lion stalking it’s prey.

Jawn, wearing nothing but a nappy and a smile, caught onto the game quickly and grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and grabbed the corner of the blanket up in his fist. The closer Sherlock came, the closer he pulled it to his face, hiding behind it. 

“ _Wheeerrrrrreeeee’s_ Daddy’s Mon–” Sherlock was suddenly cut short when a soft, jangly infant’s block sailed across the room and bonked him on the nose. “Jawn. No-no.”

Jawn only giggled and pulled the blanket completely over his head. 

Sherlock smirked and inched closer, and closer, and closer…until he was nose-to-blanket-covered-nose. “ _Wheeeeerrrrreeee’s_ Daddy’s teeny, tiny Monkey,” he sang again, barely above a whisper. 

The lump underneath the blanket giggled and shrank down.

Sherlock slowly, _slowly_ reached up, and…

…. **grabbed!** the blanket, yanking it off of Jawn’s head. “THERE’S Daddy Monkey!!!”

Jawn squealed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck; “Me, me, me!”

Sherlock laughed and sat back on his  heels, bringing Jawn with him. “You, you, you!” he said in between noisy kisses all over each of Jawn’s cheeks and forehead before leaning back, so he could see his cheery little face. “Wait a moment… _who’s_ Monkey are you again?”

Jawn wrinkled his nose, as if to say ‘who do you think you’re kidding?’ “Da’,” he said, tilting his head up for another kiss. 

Sherlock chuckled, low and warm and deep, as a slow smile spread upon his lips. “You’re brilliant,” he said, and kissed the tip of Jawn’s nose.

Jawn grinned, the tip of his tongue poking between his teeth. “Da’,” he repeated, and giggled when Sherlock kissed him again. “Da’.”

Another kiss, this time on his chin. 

Ah…there was a pattern! “Da’…Da’-Da’-Da’-Da’-Da’!”

Sherlock laughed out loud and kissed Jawn over and over, until Jawn was giggling and squealing too hard to babble his name anymore. 

“Daddy’s loves his silly Monkey.”

“Da’.”


	28. Irrational Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Prompt***: "I love your ficlets, and if prompts are still open I was wondering if you could have little!sherlock being very scared of something but also embarrassed to admit it... and daddy!john and/or Mycroft to the rescue?"

 

 

“Sherlock?”

There was no answer.

John looked up from his phone; there were few reasons why Sherlock went completely silent, and as they’d not had a particularly challenging case to keep the detective occupied in quite some time, John tried the other reason-“…did you go Little?”

Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor with his back to John (and had gone totally silent awhile ago, hence John’s question), gave no answer.

John tried again. “…Are you tiny?”

This time, Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder…

…and John saw that he was sucking on his bottom lip.

John put his phone aside and grinned. “Oh God, tell me that you’re tiny.”

A shy, half-crooked smile slowly spread across Sherlock’s face.

John clapped his hands and barked out a laugh. “Ha, yes! I’ve been wait–no, you stay right there, tiny!” He struggled to get out of his chair while trying not to trip over his own feet, and finally succeeded in heaving himself up. “You stay right there!” he said, nearly giddy with excitement as he headed for their bedroom. “Daddy has a surprise for you!”

Oh, did he ever have a surprise. John opened their closet and pulled out the small stepstool (that he begrudgingly used after Sherlock began hiding things up on the top shelf) and found the box that _he_ had hid up there in the back corner a few months ago, just for Sherlock’s next ‘tiny’ day.

…It had been far, far too long since Sherlock’s last ‘tiny’ day.

But, anyway. John hauled the box back down the hall, where the now-tiny detective was still sitting on the floor of the sitting room, sucking his fingers as he craned his neck to look for Daddy. His eyes grew big as he saw the box in John’s arms, and bigger still when the box was placed on the floor directly in front of him.

“That,” John said, beaming from ear to ear, “Is for you.”

Sherlock stared at the box, with it’s brightly colored pictures…namely the one of the smiling infant on it’s belly, laying on a mat.

He placed his hands on top of the box and tilted it towards him, then looked up at John, who was still grinning like an idiot.

“Yeah, you excited?” he said, and knelt down. “Here, let’s get it open!”

“D’ah!” Sherlock agreed as he sat back on his heels and watched John pop the tape that had it sealed, and lifted the lid. 

No sooner that he had it open, Sherlock was leaning over with his nose in it, peering at what was inside. John laughed; “You’ve gotta let me get it out of the box first, nosey,” he said, and booped the tip of Sherlock’s nose. 

Sherlock giggled and sat back again, rubbing his nose with the flat of his hand. “Nuh-uh!

“Yes-huh.” John reached into the box and came up with a plastic wrapped item that looked like a rolled sleeping bag. 

Sherlock put his hand down and cocked his head to the side, staring at it. “D’ah?”

“You’ll see.” Eager to see the reaction to his present, John bit down and tore the plastic away with his teeth, and was delighted with the little gasp of surprise from the tiny detective when he finally unfurled the big play-mat he’d picked out.

A sensory play-mat, the box said. It was decorated like the overhead view of a park, complete with people, benches, a playground, and even a pond that had a clear plastic film over it, with actual water and rubber goldfish that squished around when you pressed it.

“What’dya think?” he asked, as if the open-mouth, wide-eyed epxression on his little one’s face didn’t say it all. “You wan’na play with it, or stare at it?”

Sherlock clapped and bounced on his bottom. “D’AH D’AH!”

John laughed again…chalk this up as a complete success. “Alright, scoot over so we can spread it out!”

The instant John had it laid out on the floor in all of it’s noise-making, squishy glory, Sherlock pounced on it…he crawled around giggling and pressing things, squealing with delight at each surprise he found, like the birds in the tree that chirped, or the man playing frisbee with his dog that barked, or the patch of wildflowers that crinkled and smelled a bit like light perfume when you put your nose to them.

And then, Sherlock found the pond. 

“D’ah! D’ah-d’ah-d’ah-d’ah!” he babbled as he squished the fish around under the plastic, trying to catch them. He finally got tired of using his finger and having the rubber buggers slip away each time, and with one last, victorious-sounding “D’ah!”, he squished down on it with both hands…

…and  then thing _croaked_.

Both of them were surprised, even John…neither of them had noticed the big, googly-eyed frog sitting on a log just to one side of the pond until Sherlock had hit the sensor in it. And unlike the frog, it wasn’t a cute little ‘ribbit-ribbit’ sort of croak…it was more like the frog had been hitting the bottle all night and was revisiting his dinner on the outer wall of the pub. A real ugly, **belching** sort-of croak. 

And did he mention that it was _loud_? And that it repeated three times before shutting off?

Sherlock had startled back and sat up on his knees, his hands in the air, and looked around at the mat as he hadn’t known exactly what he’d touched to make that horrible noise, then looked up at John…and started to cry. 

“Oh, oh no!” John said as he watched Sherlock’s little face crumble and reach for him. “No, sweetheart, it’s okay! It was just a noise!”

Well, _yes_ , it was ‘just a noise’, but it had been a ghastly one! And ho knew what other ugly noises were left?! Tears spilled out of Sherlock’s eyes and he kept reaching for John, not wanting to move or press anything else. 

John sat down on the coffee table next to him…he knew he shouldn’t laugh, not when Sherlock was upset and in tears, but _God_ …this was too damned cute. The whole thing.”Awww, bumble,” he chuckled, and pulled Sherlock off of the mat and into a hug. “Poor baby,” he said, pressing the baby’s head to his shoulder as he cried, and petting him.  “It’s okay, I promise!”

Sherlock sat up and turned back to look at the mat, still snivelling and hitching. 

“You want to get back on and try again?”

Sherlock turned and re-attached himself to the crook of John’s neck with a wail;“Noooooooooo!”

Oh, my God…this was _too_ precious! John shouldn’t be enjoying himself this much. “Shhh-sh-sh,” he soothed, patting Sherlock’s back. “What if we fix it, hm?”

‘F-f-fi’ss, fi’ss’i’d?” Sherlock snuffled. 

“Yeah…Daddy can take out the bad noise and ask Nana to patch it. Does that sound better?” John kissed the side of his head…well, the part the he could reach. 

“B’ah noi’?”

“Yeah, no more bad noise.”

Sherlock sniffled wetly in John’s ear, then sat up and stared down at the mat, while his thumb made it’s way into his mouth. “…’kay,” he said quietly, his thumb slurring his words. 

John kissed his wet cheek, then gently brush the tears away with his hand.”Sweet boy. Let’s get you into a nappy, after a scare like that.”

Sherlock nodded. “Na’bby.”

‘So,’ John thought…maybe this hadn’t been a _complete_ success.


	29. Big Brother, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Prompt***: "Can I please request a continuation of the big brother Sherlock ficlet? It's so cute I need more."

Thankfully, bottle-warming was not a very monopolizing task, and Mycroft had not been out of the room for five full minutes before he returned, warm bottle in hand. There had been no screams, no cries, no howls of pain or terror, so he was in no rush as he made his way back to his study, gently shaking the bottle to make sure the heat was evenly distributed. 

He could hear his little brother still softly jabbering away as he approached the door, and once again, he peeked around the corner:

“…an’ you ‘mem’er, um, you ‘mem’er tha’ kid’dee? An’, an’  you say’ed tha’ kid’dee was, um, was _nay’ked_?” Sherlock was sitting on his heels at Jawn’s feet, playing with his toes. He took one of Jawn’s pinkie toes and rolled it between his fingers, making the smaller man break into squeaky-giggles and try to pull his foot away, with little success. “Nn-nn- _nnnnnnn_!” Jawn grunted. 

Mycroft smirked. That was more disgustingly adorable than it ever ought to be. “Careful, Sherlock,” he reminded him as he stepped into the room. “Let go when he pulls away, pet.”

Sherlock blinked up at him. “Bu’d he y’ikes i’d!”

“I know, but we don’t want to twist one of his toes too hard when he pulls away…do we?” he cooed down Jawn, who had just now noticed what Mycroft held in his hands and was grasping for it. 

Sherlock let go of Jawns’ foot and reached for the bottle, to. “I still do’id, My’coff?!”

“Of course. Here, go sit down on the couch,” Mycroft said and Sherlock scrambled to obey, nearly tripping over his own limbs while Mycroft lifted Jawn into a sitting position, then picked him up. 

Sherlock folded his legs underneath him and watched his big brother carry his ‘little brother’ over and held his arms out, waiting impatiently. “Mine.”

“There’s never been any question of that.” Mycroft carefully sat Jawn in Sherlock’s lap, and turned him the correct way for a feeding; “There, hold your arm here, under his neck…yes, there you go, you know what you’re doing, don’t you.”

“Y’ah, I ‘mem’er how,” Sherlock said, taking the bottle from Mycroft’s hand.

The elder Holmes brother stood close by and watched as Sherlock tucked Jawn in the crook of his elbow and held him close, then put the bottle to his lips.

Jawn latched on quickly, and Sherlock beamed up at Mycroft. “See, I c’n do’id!”

“Clever boy. You’re a wonderful big brother.” Mycroft ruffled Sherlocks’ hair and pinched his cheek. “Stay right here, and let me know when he’s done.”

“Why?”

“Because it will be naptime for both of you then.”

“Awww,” Sherlock groaned. “Bu’d I’m no’d tired!”

“No, but Jawn will be. Would you like to help get him ready for bed?”

Sherlock perked up. “I c’ahn?”

“Absolutely. Your help is vital.”

Sherlock grinned broadly and looked down at the tot in his lap, whose eyelids were already drooping. “C’n I, um, c’n I read ‘im a story?”

“I think he would be terribly upset if you didn’t. Sit and think of one while he eats.” Mycroft tugged on Sherlock’s ear. “And let me know when he finishes, darling.”

“O’gay.”

Mycroft went back to his desk.

Of course, Sherlock didn’t let him know _exactly_ when Jawn was done…he may have waited a few (or ten…or fifteen) minutes to finish whispering the story that was too good to wait until naptime. 

And, of course, Mycroft knew what he was doing. And he couldn’t blame his little brother for wanting to wait just a bit longer…

Because little brothers don’t stay little for long. And Mycroft knew, more than most, to enjoy it while it lasted.


	30. Adventures in Babysitting, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Prompt***: "So I have not read everything you have written yet, so this may exist and if it does, let me know... but what if.... Due to some emergency, Mycroft is left to watch little Molly, and he is charmingly befuddled and a awkward because he's simply not used to having a little girl around."

 

 

“Everything’s in there.”

Mycroft held the children’s backpack that he’d just been presented at arm’s length, one finger just barely hooked through the top strap. “…What?”

“Everything you’ll need,” Sherlock continued in one fluid, unbroken stream of words as he turned away from his brother and began to leave. “Crayons, colouring book,storybook, crackers if she gets hungry, a handful of Legos, her phone, her cup, three bottles of nail varnish, four tubes of lip gloss, her stress ball, she’s already holding her Bucky, two spare dummies–”

“I don’ nee’ those!!!”

Mycroft stared blankly, mouth slightly open, then snapped out of it and started marching after his brother. “…What??”

“–and her sticker book. But don’t let her sweet-talk you into giving her those yet; those are rewards. Oh, and there’s a set of extra pull-ups–”

“SHER’YOCK!”

“…Pull-ups?”

“–just in case. She usually lets you know when she has to go to the toilet–”

The interruption this time came in the form of a low groan.

“–but she doesn’t know you well, so you’ll have to ask and coax her. _That’s_ where the stickers come in.” Sherlock stopped in his tracks once he was out the front door and turned on his heel. He gave Mycroft a broad smile. “I should be back within the hour. Or three.” 

Before Mycroft could protest, Sherlock looked around him and stooped to talk to the figure behind him; “And you,” he said, in a much softer voice. “You’ll be a good girl for Mycroft, yes? Of course you will. I promise, we’ll go for ice cream after to make up for it.” Sherlock bent forward and placed a quick kiss on a very hesitant-looking Molly’s forehead. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said again, whirling around to leave.

“… _What??!_ ”

“Text me if there’s a need!” he called back over his shoulder and in an instant he was back into the car that had been waiting, and in the next, was zooming off down the driveway.

Mycroft stood in the door, backpack still dangling in his hand, and gaped at the quickly retreating vehicle.

The purple backpack swung on his finger, and the fuzzy face of the unicorn emblazoned on the front glared at him with what could only be malicious glee.

Mycroft looked down at his side, where his unexpected charge still stood. She too was watching the car as it left, while worrying a lock of hair tightly around her finger. Once it disappeared from their view, Molly looked up at Mycroft with wide, uncertain eyes.

They stared at each other for for a moment, regarding each other, neither one saying or doing anything, until Mycroft decided to break the uneasy silence. “Well…what now?”

Molly stared at him, her hair still twisted around her finger…when her bottom lip started to quiver.

Mycroft could only watch, helplessly, as Molly’s eyes welled up. Next came the sniffles.

“Oh, God.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Things had started off a bit teary, but once Mycroft got Molly inside and showed her the nursery that he kept for John and Sherlock when they were little, tensions eased. 

He took her pink cardigan off of her (which was a feat in and of itself, since she was still clutching the odd-looking plush toy that Sherlock had called her ‘Bucky’…an odd choice for a little girl, he thought, with its grumpy expression and half mask and…metal arm?) and hung it on the wall with her backpack. “What would you like to do now, Molly?”

Molly turned and looked him up and down…she still didn’t seem to know what to make of him. All she had heard, he presumed, is what Sherlock and/or John may have told her…which would explain her nearly bursting into tears at being put into his hands. “Um,” she started, hugging her ‘Bucky’ to her chest. “Um, Sher’yock said, um…tha’d you have craf’s?”

“I have lots of art supplies; Sherlock loves to make things, too. Would you like to see the craft closet?”

Molly’s face finally brightened, and she nodded her head quickly.

“Come along, then.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Ohhhhhhh,” Molly cooed, her eyes growing bigger by the second. “You ha’b _lots_ of glitter!”

“Yes, but let’s save that for later, hm?” ‘ _After I’ve had a chance to glitter-proof the entire house_ ,’ he thought.

“Awww…”

Mycroft thought quickly. “What about the play-dough? Sherlock loves it.”

“Do you ha’b pink?”

“Three different shades. And one has confetti in it.”

Molly gasped; “O’gay!!!!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“What’re you mag’ing?”

“An octopus. What about you?”

““Spar’gly y’ibcage.”

“That’s incredibly creative.”

“You ha’b nice han’s.”

“Thank you.”

“C’n I pain’d you nails, My’coff?”

“…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Can I ha’b a s’icker now?!”

“No.”

“Why no’d????!!!”

“Because you didn’t go potty.”

“I don’d ha’b too!!!”

“The wiggling in your seat tells me otherwise.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Molly, dearest, you can have all the stickers you want if you _please_ stop crying?”

“I’d w-was an, an ah-, _ah-s-ssid-deeeeeen’!_ ”

“I know, sweetheart, and you’re not in trouble. Look, see? Which stickers do you want in your book?”

“…Th-tha’d, tha’d one, p-p’ease.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“You haven’t eaten since you’ve been here.”

“Bucky wan’s ice c’eam.”

“Sherlock said ice cream later. Neither you or Bucky are getting any now.”

_“THA’DS NO’D FAAAAAAIIIIIRRRRRR_!’

“Jesus Christ.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Y-you, you w-won’d tell’im I was ba’?”

“Not if you can use your listening ears and lay down for a nap.”

“Bu’d I’m no’d s’eepy.”

“You’ve been around Sherlock for too long.”

* _sniffles_ *

* _sighs_ *  “If I promise to let you make my toes match my fingernails, will you lie down and rest?”

“O’gay!!!”

“Manipulators, the whole lot of you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Molly squealed as she raced down the steps and leapt into a waiting Sherlock’s arms. 

Sherlock grunted and hefted her up onto his hip. “You didn’t miss me at all, did you?” he chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Were you a good girl for Mycroft?” he asked, directing the question to her but looking squarely at his brother. 

“Y’ah!’ she chirped as Mycroft held his hand up and made an ‘Ehhhhh’ motion. 

“Double toppings on your ice cream then,” Sherlock smirked as Molly cheered, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“Do you have your backpack? Your Bucky? Your squishy?” 

“Yep, yep, yep!”

“Good girl. Tell Mycroft ‘bye-bye’ and thank him for letting you stay with him”

Molly twisted in Sherlock’s arms and gave Mycroft a big grin, and waved her Bucky at him. “Bye-bye, My’coff. I’d was y’ots o’b fun!!!”

Mycroft smiled and waved back at her as Sherlock turned to carry her back to the car. “That varnish is a fetching shade on you, _bro_.”

“I think Sherlock sounds a bit left out, Molly,” Mycroft called back.

“Ohhhh nooooooo!” Molly clung to Sherlock neck, promising to use all her best colors to ‘make his fingers p’etty too!’ as Sherlock tossed his brother a nasty look over his shoulder and stuck his tongue out. 

Mycroft gave him a glittery, purple one-fingered salute, and smugly stepped back inside his house.


	31. Sittin' On The Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Prompt***: "Will you do little Jawn and little Sherlock visiting the beach with Greg and Mycroft? Pretty pretty please!"

“My’coff!”

“Sit still, I’m nearly done.”

“I y’am done!”

“And I’m not.”

“MY’COFF!”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock whinged and leaned away from Mycroft’s hand as he dutifully smeared his fair-skinned little brother in a thick coating of sunscreen. “S’oooooooooopppp’iiiiiddddd!”

“This would go a lot faster if you would sit still.”

Greg, who had been lying on the towel beside them, made no move to help. “Just let him go play, Myc.”

“If you’re not going to help, hush your mou–SHERLOCK.” Mycroft barely managed to grab a slippery toddler by the back of his swim nappy before he could escape to the water’s edge, where his playmate was already splashing. Mycroft pulled him, squirming and fussing, back into his lap. “As I was saying,” he continued over a tiny detective’s deceptively loud protests, “…If you’re not going to help, shut _up_.” 

Greg (who _still_ hadn’t moved a muscle) lifted his sunglasses and grinned cheekily up at his increasingly flustered boyfriend. “Are you still mad because you burned the top of your head yesterday?”

Without missing a beat (and amazingly enough, without losing his grip on his wriggling brother), Mycroft reached over and slapped Greg’s bare thigh with a resounding ***CRACK*** that seemed to echo out over the entire ocean in front of them.

“ ** _OW!_** ”

Sherlock’s struggling and crying came to a full stop, and he stuck his thumb in his mouth while hardly paying any attention to the fact that it was covered in sand as he stared up at Mycroft. 

Greg sat up, rubbing the full-fingered thigh turkey that had been emblazoned upon his leg. “Touchy,” he muttered. 

Mycroft tutted in faux-sympathy, and continued to carefully apply sunscreen to Sherlock’s cheeks and nose. “I’m sorry,” he said, how voice dripping in saccharine-sweetness, “…are you still mad about the handprint I left on your thigh?”


	32. Hel'bing!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Prompt***: I had several prompts asking for Greg to spank Sherlock, big or little, so I lumped them all into one!

“Stay right here and pick up your toys, muffin. Greg’ll be back in a minute.”

Now, is there anywhere in that sentence, subtext or otherwise, that sounds like  “Please, overgrown toddler man-child, disappear while the person who’s supposed to be watching you goes for a quick wee in the five free minutes he has before getting dinner started.”

No, you say? Nothing like that at all? 

Yeah, that’s what Greg had thought, too. So, needless to say, that when he came back out of the loo to find toys and lego’s and puzzle pieces still all over the floor and no little detective to be had picking them up, Greg had to stop and question himself if he’d actually said what he thought he’d said. 

…And then came a clatter from the kitchen. 

Dammit. 

Greg quick-stepped to the kitchen in record time, but once he turned the corner, he froze. 

Now, I ask you one more time…does “Stay right here and pick up your toys, muffin,” sound anything, _anything_ like “Please go into the kitchen without me, turn on the stove, and then climb onto the counter directly next to the stove with your bare leg pants-shittingly close to the glowing hot eye”?!?

No? Still not the same?

That’s what Greg thought. 

Seeing Sherlock’s nappied bum up on his knees on the counter, his bare calf within inches of the glowing red burner, Greg’s heart seized in his chest…and then he acted. He was across the room before he realised it himself and grabbed Sherlock ‘round the waist, then spun him off the cabinet before he could even cry out in surprise. 

It was only when Sherlock’s feet were safely on the floor, that Greg felt his heart start beating again…three times as fast as it was supposed to, mind, but at least it was still working. “What,” he wheezed, more than little out-of-breath after the marathon he’d just run, “were you doing?!”

Sherlock’a little surprised ‘o’ of a mouth split into a wide grin. “I wa'ss hel’bing!”

Greg just stared at him, mouth hanging open. “.. _.What!?_ ”

“Hel’bing ma’ge dinner!”

Greg was having a hard time processing this. Sure, he heard the words, he could see Sherlock saying them, but they just weren’t connecting or his synapses weren’t firing right or something, because this still wasn’t making any sense. “You are not–!” he stuttered, “You know you’re not…you are not to touch the stove!”

Sherlock’s face faltered. G’eg didn’t seem as pleased as he thought he’d be. “I wa’ss bein’ care’bul…”

“Not careful enough, little man!” Greg still had Sherlock by the shoulders, and now spun him around and landed two sharp swats in quick succession to the pair of chubby cheeks peeking out from the bottom of the little detective’s nappy.

Caught off guard, Sherlock did little more than gasp and go up on his toes, then stared at Greg, mouth hanging open in shock. 

Greg could only stare back…Sherlock hadn’t been the only one taken by surprise. Greg was not the one to practice physical discipline with the boys…he usually left that to Mycroft. 

So the fact that he was holding the baby, palm still poised for a smack, was not…it was not _good_ ; not to him. 

Sherlock had been too surprised at first to react much, but now…well, now the sting was starting to set in. He stared at Greg, his breath coming in quick huffs as his eyes watered and vision blurred…

Then, while Greg could do nothing but watch, Sherlock’s face crumbled, and he began to cry. 

Greg felt his heart crumble the same way. “Oh, muffin,” he sighed, and wrapped Sherlock in a tight hug. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Sherlock laid his head on Greg’s shoulder and wept. “S-ss-sss’aw-aw’rrrreeee,” he stammered. 

Greg felt like crying, too. “C’mere, sweetheart. Come sit with Greg for a second,” he said, pulling away from Sherlock (which was hard enough, even if the baby hadn’t been clutching the back of his shirt) and leading him to one of the chairs around the table with an arm around his waist.

Greg sat down first, and guided Sherlock into his lap. The tyke leaned against him, still sniffling and rubbing his hand over his cheeks and nose.

Greg cuddled him close and kissed his temple. “I’m very sorry I spanked you,” he said, starting with that first and foremost. “I just got spooked.”

“S-spoo’ged?”

“Yeah…see, you were awfully close to burning yourself up there, and that scared Greg.”

Sherlock laid his head on Greg’s shoulder. “Bu’d I wa’ss care’bul…”

“Your leg was really, really close to getting burnt, muffin. Like, _that_ close,” Greg added, holding his fingers less than an inch apart to show him. 

Sherlock stuck his thumb in his mouth, and curled his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Tha’ds c’yose,” he said. 

“Too close,” Greg agreed, and started to rub Sherlock’s back. “That’s why Mycroft and I don’t let you around the oven when it’s on. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “…Span’gs hur’d,” he finally mumbled. 

Despite himself, the corner of Greg’s mouth twitched up. “Yeah, and I apologized for that. But at least a spanking won’t cause third degree burns and a trip to the A&E.”

Sherlock only looked up at him, and raised his eyebrow.

Greg barked out a laugh. “Har-har, very funny,” he chuckled, and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Promise you won’t touch the oven again?”

Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of Greg’s neck. “Mm-hmm.”

“Good boy.” Greg stopped rubbing and patted the back of Sherlock’s nappy. “Would you still like to help with dinner?”

Sherlock sat up. “I c’ahn?”

“Sure. Just not around the oven.”

“Wha’d I do?”

“Well, first you’re gonna go pick up your toys, or Mycroft’s gonna spank the both of us.”

Sherlock giggled and wiped the last of his tears off his cheeks. ‘G’eg in t’ouble.”

“It’s not that funny. D’you want to help butter rolls?”

“Yeeeeeeeeeee’sh.”

“Alight, that’s your job. Roll-Butter’er. Right after Toy-Picker-Upper’er.”


	33. Afternoon Activities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt*:"Can we have some Toddlerish Molly (maybe nappy wearing age) with Big Sherlock and Uncle John? I think that would be so cute."

“Molly.”

Little Molly didn’t answer straightaway…all of her concentration was focused on getting the super-special-shiny-dino stickers that Sher’yock had given her to sit on the Lego block _juuuuuuuussss’_ ri’de before pressing down and sticking it into place.

Because, as Molly knew, once you stick a sticker, it’s there FOREVER. So you have to be totally, completely, absolutely 100% sure that you stick your stickers somewhere safe.

Because it’s stuck there. FOREVER.

“Molly,” John tried again.

Molly hunched down further over the lego in her hand, the tip of her tongue poking out in concentration.

“Molly. MOLLY. MOLL-EE. MOLL-EE HOOP-AH!”

Molly finally got the tiny, three-horn-shaped sticker centered and pressed it down, cementing it forever onto the tiny plastic block with a delighted “Yay!” and a happy bum wiggle. 

John threw up his hands and gave Sherlock a look that perfectly encapsulated an emoji that the detective had seen used more than once in text messages from the good doctor himself: “ D:< ”

Sherlock was pinching his lips and nearly asphyxiating on his own, barely contained laughter. He shook his head and looked away while he collected himself (in order to _not_ get murdered in front of the sweet little angel-tot under their care today), and when he finally felt back under his own control, he looked down at the little pigtailed munchkin sitting at his feet. “Molly,” he said, nudging her bum with his foot. 

Molly looked up from the sheet of stickers in her hand. “Wha’d???”

“Uncle John wants your attention, darling.”

“Unc’a Jawn?”

“Yes…he’s been trying for several minutes.”

“Ohhhhh…why didn’, um, why didn’ he say so???”

“I _did_.”

Molly whirled around and looked up at John, her eyes widening. “Oh…. _Hiiiiiiii_ , Unc’a Jawn!” she chirped, genuinely surprised to see him there.

John’s face visibly softened, and Sherlock smirked; John was such a pushover, and didn’t even know it. 

John bent down with his hands on his knees; “Molly, sweetheart, precious, cupcake, baby doll, angel…where did you put my phone?”

“Your _wha’d_???”

John’s smile never faltered, but it lost a bit of the, uh, the shine. “My phone, darling. You know, I let you play a game on it?”

Molly gasped; “Ohhhhhh, Can’ee Crunch???” she asked, clasping her hands under her chin. “I y’uuuuuuuub tha’d game! I bea’d i’d an’ go’d a high score, a’–!”

“That’s wonderful princes, but where did you put it when you were done?”

“Where I pu’d i’d?”“

John’s face looked as if it were close to cracking. “Yes, darling,” he said slowly. “I need it back; where did you leave it.”

Molly tilted her head and bit her lip while she thought. “Ummmmm,” she hummed out loud, then wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “I dun’no!”

John’s smile seemed to be unnaturally frozen in place. “…What.” 

Molly shrugged again, and giggled. 

“John.”

“Molly, I need you to find my phone. Now.”

“John…”

“Shut _up_. Molly, Uncle John isn’t kidding around, one…”

“ _John._ ”

“If I have to get to three, you’re going on the naughty step. Two…”

Just as John was opening his mouth for a ‘Three’, the back right pocket of his trousers started to vibrate, causing his mouth to snap shut just as his ringtone started to play: “ _Ooga chaka Ooga chaka Ooga Ooga Ooga chaka…”_

Sherlock and Molly both burst out laughing as John reached into his back pocket and retrieved his phone, only to see that it was Sherlock himself calling. “What the hell–???”

Sherlock wiped his eyes while Molly was still doubled over, clutching her belly. “G-good girl,” he stammered, and held his hand down for a tiny high-five. “Very, v-very good!”

John just stared at them as if they’d lost their minds…and at this rate, they may very well have. “What.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, thought his was still grinning like…well, like an idiot. “I, I bet her a new outfit if she could find a way to get your phone back onto your person without you noticing,” he explained, still chuckling to himself, and then reached down for Molly. “And she did!” he cheered, lifting her into his lap. “Clever girl!”

“Ha-ha-ha,” John said flatly. “Yes, I’m the idiot, now both of you can go sit on the step, ha-ha-ha.”

Molly giggled and leaned back against Sherlock’s chest while he gave her a peck on the cheek…

“Wor’f i’d!”


	34. Y'ost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt**: "We need lots more Molly! Please?"

Making a trip to the shop was the very last thing that one Sherlock Holmes wanted to spend his day doing.

Maybe not _the_ last thing. Anything that involved his brother would be the last thing. Or helping Ms. Hudson look at carpet swatches (not that the flat needed new carpeting, but did anyone listen to him. _No_. Of course not). Those would be the very last things. 

Sherlock felt the little hand that was held in his start to slip from his grasp, and he gave it a squeeze. “No, Molly.”

“Bu’d Sheeeerrrr’ _yooooooock!_ ”

…But a trip to the shop with an antsy, active Little who wants to look at and touch everything her grubby little hands can reach while in headspace?

That would be pretty darn close to the bottom of the list.

“Molly, what was my one rule?”

Molly refused to answer him, a sure sign that she was pouting as hard as her little face could. 

Sherlock glanced down at the little girl standing stiffly at his side…oh, yes. Face absolutely puckered into a harsh frown and bottom lip jutting out about a yard.

He gave her a small nudge with his elbow. “Molly,” he said again. “What was the rule for coming with me?”

Molly continued to ignore him. 

“Hmmm…since you seem to have been struck by a mystery illness and lost your voice, I suppose we should turn around and go home…”

Molly whinged and stomped her foot. 

“Molly.”

She had enough experience to know that he wasn’t bluffing when he said that, either. “…S’day wi’f yooooou,” she answered finally, with a more-dramatic-than-necessary sigh. 

“Very good, you stay with me.” Sherlock gave her hand another tug, urging her to follow along after him. “Remember what happens when you follow the rules?”

Molly, who’d been shuffling along begrudgingly and dragging her heels while she did so, perked up a bit. “G’ed a pri’ce?” she asked, looking up at him hopefully as they passed through the automatic doors. 

“You _do_ remember, you clever girl.” 

Molly beamed, and trotted along beside him with a newfound pep in her step. 

Sherlock smiled, despite his initial reluctance to be here…maybe it wouldn’t be such a hassle of a trip after all. 

He led Molly back to the refrigerated section, where they would find the sole reason for the trip…you guessed it–they had run out of milk. _Again_. 

Molly chattered at his side while he perused the literal wall of milk; “…an’, an’ Pe’bba, she couldn’, um, she couldn’ _whi’thle_ , even though she tried really, really hard! An’, um, then she called–”  

_‘What kind did John buy, again?’_ He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it had a cow on the front–which they _all_ did, he noticed with no small amount of disdain.

“–an’ i’d was _sooooo_ fun’nee!” Molly giggled. “An’, an’ then she–!”

Blast it. And John had made it a point to mention the name of the brand no less than four times before he’d sent them on their way. Sherlock let go of Molly’s hand and reached into his pocket for his mobile. He’d have to text him and ask again, damn it all. And John wouldn’t be letting this slide without copping an attitude. 

It wasn’t _his_ fault that it was so easy to tune John out when all he did was drone on and on _and on_ –

Sherlock suddenly paused mid-text. 

It was quiet.

He looked around quickly–Molly was nowhere to be seen. 

Sherlock felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach (which he’d always wondered how true that statement was, and the answer was ‘ **very** ’). “Molly??” He looked around quickly, hoping that Molly had just wandered away a few steps, but she was nowhere to be seen. 

The sinking feeling in his stomach was replaced by a heart-pounding panic when there was no answer, and no little girl to be seen. “Molly?!? MOLLY!” he called out, and still–nothing in reply. 

‘ _What are you doing just standing there? Go LOOK for her!_ ’ Sherlock began to hurry to the other end of the store, looking down every aisle and trying to quell the urge to run while screaming her name. It wasn’t a big store, she couldn’t have gone very far, she knew better than to talk to strangers, and…

Each aisle he passed–no Molly. Each time he called out her name–no Molly. 

He felt his panic starting to creep up into his chest.

“ **MOLLY!** ”

“…Sher’yock?”

The detective literally skidded to a stop, his shoes leaving ugly blacks marks on the lino, and whirled around to see Molly stepping out of an aisle that had been in the opposite direction, a book held in her hands. She looked utterly confused.

The icy grip that had been clutching Sherlock’s stomach released it’s hold, and he very nearly pissed himself out of relief. He rushed back to her and as soon as he was within reach, he grabbed her, pulled her into an enthusiastic hug, and held her to his chest until she began to wriggle. “Ou’sh, Sher’yooooooock…you’re s’keeshing me!”

Sherlock made himself release his hold on her…yet he still kept his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Where _were_ you?!” he asked, his breath coming out in one relieved rush. 

Molly’s eyes had grown wide, and had an uneasy look in them as she stared up at Sherlock. “Um, I wen’d, um, I wen’d to y’ook at’ta books,” she whispered, her head dipping lower and lower until she was almost looking at the floor. 

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief. “Don’t ever, _ever_ walk away like that again,” he scolded, letting go of one shoulder to wag a finger in her face. “That was the _one_ thing I told you not to do, Molly…no-no!” He took her by the hand, and continued to fuss as they walked back to the entrance. “You’re going straight to the naughty step the very second we get home, and–” 

He was cut short as he finally met her gaze again.

Molly was biting her lip in an effort  not to cry, eyes glassed over with tears, and the poor thing was shaking like a leaf while she still clutched the picture book she’d been holding to her chest. 

Sherlock’s resolved wilted, and he loosed his grip on her hand. He bent down close, and lowered his voice. “Look, Molly,” he began, softly. “I didn’t mean to shout. It just gave me a fright when  looked up and couldn’t see you.”

Molly nodded her head, and a tear rolled down her cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and stood up to give her a less-harried (and much nicer) hug. 

Molly promptly buried her face into his coat and clutched the back of it on her free hand. 

“Just…please stay where I can see you next time, yes?” he asked, petting her hair. 

Molly nodded again, and Sherlock kissed the top of her head. “Let’s just go home,” he sighed, and started to leave. 

“You know, Molly…”

Molly lifted her head and blinked up at him with her big, brown doe-eyes. 

“…This would be a lot easier if you held my hand instead of my coat.”

Those same eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled up at him, and he smiled back. “S’rr’ee, Sher’yock,” she whispered as she let go of his coat and took his hand instead. 

“It’s fine now, darling,” he said, leading them back through the sliding doors…but not before gently slipping the book out of her arms, and setting it aside on a fruit display.

Molly turned to look over her shoulder. “…No pri’ce?” she asked hesitantly, batting her eyelashes at him. 

Sherlock just gave her a look, and she dropped her gaze to the sidewalk. they both remained quiet on the walk home. 

They had just turned onto Baker Street, when Molly piped up again in her tiny little voice; “…Sher’yock?”

“Yes, you still have to sit on the step.”

Molly pouted. “Tha’s no’d wha’s I wa’ss gon’na _saaaay_!” she whinged. 

“Mmmmmmm, my apologies. What were you going to say?”

“We, um, we didn’ ge’d any, um, any mil’g.”

“…Bugger.”


	35. That Kind Of Day

 

 

 

As per usual on his day off, John had gathered the paper and his coffee, and proceeded to camp out on the couch for his mid-morning break. Still in his gown, he sat his cup on the low table within easy reach, put his feet up and stretched out, and then unfolded his paper and flipped to the sports to see if his boy’s had been holding their own.

And, as per usual on John’s day off, Sherlock set his barely-touched coffee in the sink, shed himself of his pajama bottoms, waited until he heard John turn away from the sports page, and then followed him into the sitting room where he crawled up onto the couch and stretched himself out on top of John.

“Mm,” John hummed as he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and maneuvered one arm so he could lay it across the other man’s shoulders without letting go of his paper.

He waited to see if it was one of those days.

After a few lovely, sun-warm minutes of quiet cuddling, John heard the soft ‘nuk-nuk-nuk’ that meant Sherlock was sucking his thumb.

John grinned and folded his paper over so he could hold it in one hand, then curled his free one through Sherlock’s hair. “One of those days, huh?” he asked, without expecting an answer. He already knew.

Sherlock curled into an impossibly, adorably smaller little bundle at John’s side.

He could feel the motions of Sherlock’s jaw as he suckled, now. “Ah-ah,” John said, giving Sherlock’s head a gentle nudge with his chin. “You know you’re not supposed to suck your thumb, love.” John had called a brief interlude on the thumb-sucking when he noticed marks on both the knuckle of the detective’s thumb AND the bridge of his nose, where his fingers rested. In the meantime, while the marks faded, he tried to keep the little oral-fixator hooked on his dummies. “Go get one of your dummies–”

Sherlock began to whinge, until John interrupted him with “–and then we’ll go to the park. Does that sound fun? Would you like lunch at the park?”

Sherlock went quiet, then sat up and rested his chin on John’s chest and blinked up at him. “Yeah?!” he asked with a muted awe.

“We can, IF,” John said, talking over the gasp that had escaped his little boy; “If you can get up without a fuss and get a dummy like I asked you to.”

Sherlock scrambled to get off of the couch and John did what he could to avoid taking any elbows or knees to the tender bits. He smiled as he heard Sherlock thumping through the flat, excited as can be by the prospect of getting to feed the ducks and have chips for lunch.

John sighed a soft, relaxed kind of sigh…it was one of those days.

Sherlock was back shortly. But, instead of climbing back onto the couch (and John) as John thought he would, he just stood there by John’s head, waiting.

John finally looked up to see what the hold-up was.

Sherlock was stood there looking back and forth between each of his hands, which were both closed in loose fists.

“What’cha got there, muffin?”

Sherlock frowned slightly, before setting each object on the table in front of John:

Two dummies…one pink, the other blue.

John grinned. “Sweetheart, you can’t have both…I know you like to, but it makes your mouth hurt, remember?”

Actually, Sherlock’s personal record was six–that’s right, SIX– dummies at once, and that had lasted for a good half hour before he’d complained about his tongue feeling funny.

Cute as hell, though.

Sherlock glanced at him, still frowning, and shook his head.

“No? Then why’d you bring two, baby?”

Sherlock shrugged before taking his thumb back into his mouth.

John reached up and took his wrist, pulling it right back out again. “No-no, use your words like a big boy.”

Sherlock’s frown turned into a full pout, bottom lip poking out and all. 

“No, no no nononono.” John used Sherlock’s wrist to tug him over, and sat Sherlock in his lap. “No, leet’s not fuss just yet…give Daddy a chance to figure it out, yeah?”

Sherlock perched on John’s knee and nodded, all while eyeing the two dummies on the table.

John began to put his deductive skills to use. “Okay, so,” he mused, one hand on his chin. “I told you to pick a dummy. But you brought me two dummies.”

Sherlock leaned his cheek against the top of John’s head and nodded.

“Meaning…hm. Meaning…you didn’t want to pick?” John hazarded a guess.

Sherlock nodded again.

“You want me to pick.”

Sherlock nodded a third time, and patted John’s cheek.

John chuckled; “So it’s Daddy’s job to pick today. Alright, I can do that,” he said. “Let’s see, pink, or bl–”

John stopped short.

The colours.

Sherlock had hundreds, literally _hundreds,_ of dummies to pick from, in every sort of colour, size, shape, and design. He could have brought a green one, or a yellow one, or a black one, a white one, a spotted one, a striped one, the possibilities were just about endless…

And yet, he’d brought a pink one, and a blue one.

…John wasn’t just picking a dummy today.

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had asked him to make this choice…in fact, they’d done it a handful of times before. Just not recently.

So, it was _that_ kind of day.

John turned his gaze up at his little boy, who’d gone back to staring at the pair of dummies, the tip of his thumb resting just at the curve of his lower lip.

Well, in that case…not a little boy, then. Not today.

John reached out and picked up the baby pink, heart-shaped dummy and Sherlock sat up, suddenly back to full attention.

A faint blush dusted the tops of his cheeks as John slipped the dummy through his– _her_ , parted lips.

“There,” John said, patting Sherlock’s backside. “Is my little Miss happy now?”

Sherlock nodded shyly as the blush spread, matching the dummy in a rather fetching way.

“Sweet girl. Can you snuggle with Daddy until he finishes his paper?”

Soon, the pair were back to their morning cuddle positions, with John reading out the obituaries as his fingers teased and twirled Sherlock’s curls into ringlets that were befitting of any little Princess.

It was one of those days.


	36. Happy Easter!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More about this ficlet can be found here: https://sadieandmo.tumblr.com/post/172467770246/easter-commission

 

 

 

 

“Darling, stand still and stop fussing.”

“Nuuuuuu!”

Irene stopped meddling with the felt-covered, bendable pink bunny ears that she was attempting (without much success) to affix to her fussy little girls’ hair, and stepped back; “…Our guests are going to be arriving soon. Should I tell them that they’ll be on their own for the Easter Egg hunt?”

Her little girl gave a high-pitched whinge. But, being the good Mummy that she is, Irene knew what that sort of whinge meant. “Then let Mummy get you dressed, pet,” she said, and then laughed at the pout she got in return. “Such a pouty little bun-bun,” Irene cooed, and tapped her little girl’s upturned nose. “Mummy’s little Bunny.”

Bunny blushed and hid her face in her hands. “Nuuuuuuuu,” she said again, only without the whinge. 

“Yeeeeeeeese,” Irene said, mimicking her tone and taking the opportunity to fix her little Bun-Bun’s ears while she was blushing herself into oblivion. She left one sticking straight up, and bent the other so that it looked like lazy, flippity-floppity bunny’s ear. “Perfect! And just the perfect shade of pink to match your dress!” 

“My d’ess?” Bunny asked in that soft way of hers, and peeked through her fingers as she looked down at her self. Mummy had found a lovely dress online, just in time for Easter, with a big, squishy bubble-skirt in pink gingham, with straps like overalls that buckled over her shoulders…the buckles were Bunny’s favorite part, and the reason it was the most perfect dress for Easter–they were bright and shiny, and shaped just like bunnies! 

Bunny moved her hands away from her face and touched the buckles, fascinated by the shine on them. “My d’ess!” she chirped, and did a little spin to make her skirt poof up. 

Irene beamed at her charming little girl, and then thought to check her watch. “Oh, my…darling, our guests are due any second. Go fetch Luna and the baskets, please.” No sooner than Irene had spoken, when the doorbell sounded downstairs. “Look, there they are! Hurry now!” she said, sending Bunny off with a playful swat to the back of her puffy skirt. 

Bunny gasped. “Lu-lu!” she said, and darted off to find her plush bunny and the Easter baskets.

While her little girl was busy, Irene made her way to the front foyer, her heels tapping on the marbled floor and echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling as she approached the front door, where she could hear muffled voices as well as see blurred, moving shapes on the other side of the frosted glass. Just as she reached for the knob, the doorbell rang again. 

Her lips curled into a coquettish smile and she opened the door, only to be greeted by John Watson’s commanding voice; “–told you, you only ring it once!” he barked at the very chastised little boy at his side. 

Her smiled broadened. “Hello, John.”

John’s attention snapped to Irene as he realized she had answered the door. “Hullo, Irene,” he said, his face softening, and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about that, someone just got a little eager…Sherlock? What do you say?”

Sherlock, having been appropriately reprimanded, had his head bowed. At the sound of his name, he glanced up from his black-buckled shoes and looked at her shyly. “Sorry, ‘Rene,” he pouted, and reached up to tug at one of his curls. 

“That’s quite alright, sweetheart,” she cooed at him, and stepped aside to let them both in. “Come in, come in…aren’t you excited at the fun you’re going to have at Auntie ‘Rene’s today?!’

Sherlock finally held his head up and gave her one of his award-winning sweet, crooked smiles; “Y’ah, “ he said, letting John take off his coat and revealing his own brand-new Easter outfit. 

“Well,” Irene cooed, still grinning like the cat who caught the canary. “Aren’t you _precious_ …turn around and let Auntie see you!”

Sherlock blushed furiously, but did as Irene asked, showing off an outfit that was incredibly similar to her little girls’…only instead of pink gingham, there was robin’s-egg-blue, and instead of a poofy skirt, there were short-all’s. 

But, but outfits _did_ include identical white blouses with Peter-Pan collars, black polished Mary-Jane’s, and the same sets of silver, bunny-shaped buckles. 

Irene winked at John; “I told you it would suit him.”

John grinned back. “What can I say…when you’re right, you’re right. What were you supposed to tell Aunt Irene for your new clothes, sweetheart?”

“I y’ike them b’ery much, f’ank’oo!”

“You are so welcome, pet!” Irene clasped her hands together, as pleased as could be…these were going to make for _marvelous_ pictures.

“ ‘Rene?” Sherlock asked. “Where’s Bun–?”

“Hiiii, Sher’yock!”

Sherlock turned around and grinned his sweet,lopsided grin as his friend bustled into the room and abandoned the white woven baskets she carried just so she could launch herself into into his arms. “Hi, Bun’nee!” he said, and wrapped her in a hug, her stuffed bunny squished between them. 

“Aw, that was sweet,” John said as he hung up his and Sherlock’s coats. “Now I’m starting to feel a bit left out.”

“Hiiii, Un’ca Jawn!”

“That’s more like it…hi, cupcake!”

“I’m no’d a cu’bcake!”

“I’m sorry, I forgot!…but you do look a tiny bit like a cupcake in your pretty dress!”

Bunny giggled and hid her face against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“What do you say to Uncle John, darling?”

There was a muffled “F’ank’oo!”, and Irene laughed. “I don’t know, John,” she said, looking over at him with a gleam in her eye. “Do they look excited to you?”

John caught the gist and winked back. “Gee, I d’unno, Irene…they look a little sluggish. Maybe a nap should be in order first…” he said, and lost it at the chorus of ‘Nooooooooooo!’s and the very unhappy faces that were thrown his way. 

_“Muuuuummy, tell ‘im_ **no**!”  
“You say’ed nap af’fer!!!”  
“I’m no’d s’eepy!!”  
“P’eeeeeease nooooo!”

Irene clapped her hands over the roar while John continued to crack up. “Boys and girls–BOYS AND GIRLS! LISTEN!”

The protests from the pastel duo grew quiet and set their gaze on Irene; Sherlock, sucking his thumb and Bunny, who was chewing on her stuffies’ long, floppy ear. 

Irene smiled. “There we go,” she said, her voice back to it’s normal timbre. “Of course Uncle John and I were teasing: we’ll still hunt for eggs first, then lunch, then a nap.”

Both Littles looked at each other, relieved. 

“Now, there are rules we need to talk about.”

Both Littles looked at each other again. “Rule’th?” Sherlock asked, his thumb making him lisp. 

“Yes, rules. There are exactly forty-eight plastic eggs outside, twenty-four for each of you, and they all have wonderful prizes inside. _But_ Sherlock can only collect the Silver eggs, and Bunny can only collect the Gold ones.”

“That’s a really good idea,” John whispered to her behind his hand. “I was wondering how to keep him from finding them all.”

Sherlock raised his hand, and Irene giggled to herself. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Um, c’n I, um, c’n, I hel’b Bunny fin’ hers?”

“How sweet! Only if she asks you to, pet.” Irene clapped again. “Gather your baskets!”

Bunny and Sherlock each gave excited squeals and scrambled for their baskets. 

“Ready? Alright, follow me!” Irene led the giddy, giggly bunch to the backdoor with john trailing behind, and held her hand on the knob. “Remember, you can only collect your own color egg, understand?” 

They both nodded at her, each one bouncing from foot-to-foot in anticipation.

“One…two…three! **GO!** ” Irene flung the door open and was nearly trampled in a flurry of shrieking and shiny-buckled shoes, if John hadn’t pulled her out of the way just in time. “That, was _hilarious_.” 

“Shut up,” she laughed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Not twenty minutes later, all four were seated at the patio table, already set for lunch, while Sherlock and Bunny were cracking open their eggs and babbling excitedly over their prizes. 

“Y’ook, Da’yee!” Sherlock was sitting in John’s lap, chocolate already coating the corners of his mouth, and waved a tiny container of bubbles under his nose. “Bubb’as!”

John kissed his cheek; “I see that. Perhaps you and Bunny can play with them later.”

Bunny sat at Irene’s feet, her own basked balanced in her lap. “Oooo,” she cooed as a plastic ring fell out of her egg and into her palm. “I gott’ed treasure!” she said, holding it up for Irene to see. 

“Goodness, how did that get in there?” Irene took it from her and slipped it on her own finger, then held it to to admire it. “Diamonds aren’t for babies!”

“Mummy, noooooooo!” Bunny giggled and sat up on her knees, reaching for her prize. “Tha’ds mine!”

“Is it? Are you sure?” 

“Y’us!”

“I’ll trade you a kiss for it.”

Bunny tilted her head up and Irene pecked her on the lips, then slipped the ring on her little girl’s finger. “Did you have fun, darling?”

Bunny held out her hand and admired her ring, just like her Mummy had. “Y’us!”

“C’n we do i’d again???” Sherlock chirped from the other side of the table.

“But you’ve found all the eggs, dearest!”

“I c’n hide’em y’is time!”

“Me too!” Bunny added. 

Irene looked at John, who shrugged. “Very well,” Irene said, finally. “Both of you may take turns hiding them again while we fix lunch.”

There were cheers and whoops from both little ones. “Bun’nee, you c’yose you eyes!” Sherlock said, scooping his eggs back into his basket and scrambling down from John’s lap, with Bunny hot on his heels. 

“This was a really, _really_ good idea,” John said to her, watching the babies across the yard. 

Irene smiled as she watched her little Bun-bun peeking at Sherlock through her fingers. 

“Yes…I do have them, from time to time. Care to help me in the kitchen?”

John bowed and gestured for her to go ahead, before following her back into the house. 

                                                **~END~**


	37. Bubbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a request made by a certain Birthday Girl! @silly-little-daisy, Happy Birthday!

“No peeking!”

Sherlock giggled; “ ‘m no’d pee’ging!”

“I saw you peeking!” Mycroft scolded playfully. He readjusted his hands over his little brother’s eyes as he stood behind him. “Now walk forward, slowly.”

Sherlock reached up and covered Mycroft’s hands with his own. “Bu’d I cannah _see_ , My’coff!”

“That’s the point.” Mycroft nudged the tiny detective forward, directing him towards the door that led to the backyard. “This way.”

“Where goin’?!?”

“You’ll see.”

“Bu’d I don’ see!!!!”

“I meant that you’ll see when we get there–wait, wait, pick up your feet before you trip, there, step over that…no, I’ve got you, it’s alright. Annnnd–” Mycroft waited until Sherlock made it over the raised threshold (all while making sure he didn’t trip) to lower his hands; “–Surprise!”

Sherlock blinked at the sudden flood of sunshine in his face, waiting for his eyes to adjust…and when they did, and he finally saw what the big surprise actually _was_ , he gasped out loud:

“ ** _Bubb’as!!!_** ”

Even Mycroft laughed as Sherlock made a toddling beeline straight for John and Gregory, who were waiting across the yard with big, doofy grins on their face.

And there, laying on the grass at their feet, was a massive, picnic-style blanket laden with three large, gallon-sized bottles of bubble solution, two dozen (that’s right, two _dozen_ ) smaller bottles and tubes in all different colours, and a basket full of different bubble-blowing toys.

Sherlock had been begging, for _months_ , to go back outside and ‘play bubbles’ (except in his own charming little words, it had been ‘p’yay bubb’as’) ever since last Summer had ended and the cooler Autumn weather had moved in. So he, Gregory, and John had been planning and waiting for the first warm day of the year to make the little tyke’s wish come true.

And here they were, the first day warm enough to let Sherlock out in nothing but a nappy and a smile, with all the bubble’s he could ever want, for as long as he wanted, to his heart’s content.

Mycroft started across the yard and caught up to them just as Sherlock was deciding what to play with first; he reached for a brightly colored toy that looked a water gun with a fish attached and held it up, jabbering excitedly. “Wa’ss this?? Wha’d i’d do??” he babbled at Greg, waving the toy in his face.

“That, is a bubble gun,” John said as he took it from him. “You want to see how it works?”

“Y’ah y’ah y’ah, p’ease!” Sherlock said and crawled onto the blanket, then sat up on his knees. “S’ow me! S’ow me bubb’as!” he clapped.

The baby’s eagerness made John grin, and he picked up one of the bottles of solution. “Here,” he said, and showed Sherlock the little stopper on the back. “We take this out, and we pour the bubbles in there–”

“Bubb’as in’na fi’ss???”

“Right, bubbles in the fish.” John ended up pouring more of the bubbles onto his hand rather than in the actual toy itself, but no matter…one look at his little boy’s face made the mess worth it. He handed the toy back to Sherlock and wiped his hand on his jeans; “Okay, you see this part, the trigger?”

“Y’ah!”

“Pull it.”

Sherlock held the toy in both hands, and then pulled on the yellow, plastic trigger…and squealed as the first few soapy bubbles oozed out of the fishes mouth. “Y’ook, him b’yow!”

Greg was belly laughing. “Keep squeezing, he’ll blow bigger ones!” he cackled, still cracking up even as Mycroft cuffed the back of his head. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“As’cuss’in!” Sherlock squealed as the fish burped up more bubble sludge, which eventually turned into real, proper bubbles that floated across the blanket and soon had everyone surrounded.

“Not bad for a quid,” Greg said, sounding genuinely impressed. “Hey, muffin, you want a different one now?”

“Y’ah!” Sherlock said, dropping the toy gun back onto the blanket and picking up another that looked like a plastic glove, but with webbed fingers and holes all through the plastic. “Wa’ss this one, G’eg???”

“You just wanted a turn with the gun,” John muttered under his breath, smirking.

“Shu’ddup and hand me that,” Greg said, taking the bottle of solution from him, and then pointed at an empty pie tin.

“Say ‘please’.”

Greg gave him a look that said, ‘…The fuck you on about?’

“You gotta set a good example for the baby.”

With another look, this time one that clearly said ‘I’m going to kick you in your arse later’, Greg rolled his eyes and asked again; “Pleeeeeease, hand me the pie tin,” he said with a barely concealed sneer.

John had a big, smug grin on his face as he handed Greg the tin; “You’re welcome.”

“Goo’ e’ssam’ble!” Sherlock agreed happily, and scooted closer to Greg. “S’ow me how’a do i’d!”

Sherlock’s baby-babbling put the smile back on Greg’s face, and he carefully poured enough solution into the tin to cover the bottom. “Here, put that on,” he said, and watched Sherlock wiggle his hand into the glove; “And now put your hand here…no, flatten it out.” Greg took Sherlock’s wrist and placed his hand flat in the tin; “Now, wave your hand!”

Sherlock giggled and took great joy in flinging his hand about, sending dozens upon dozen of tiny little micro-bubbles into the air…as well as showering everyone else (and a bit on himself) with big drops of soapy liquid. “Watch out, darling,” Mycroft said, and shielded his eyes with his hand.

“Saw’ry!” Sherlock said, and slapped his now-empty bubble glove back into the pie tin, splashing more of it out onto the blanket. “Y’ots bubb’as, My’coff! Y’ots bubb’as!” 

“I see, lots and lots of bubbles!” It’s a good thing he’d left off getting Sherlock dressed, he noted as he saw just how much of the solution his little brother was coated in, from his chest down to his knees. Mycroft sat down on the blanket next to John and picked up a small pink bottle in the shape of a strawberry. “Sherlock, come look at these!”

“Bubb’as??” Sherlock chirped, abandoning his glove as he crawled over to his big brother. “Mo’ bubb’as, My’coff?”

“Yes, but these are different–cut it out, Gregory,” he said, waving a swarm of bubbles from the bubble gun away from his face. “Look,” he said, and cracked open the cap before holding it under Sherlock’s nose. “Smell.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Ooooooo,” he cooed. “Smell pre’ddy!”

“They smell like strawberries, don’t they?” Mycroft said, smiling broadly.

“Uh-huh!” Before Mycroft could say “Wait!”, his slippery, bubble-covered baby brother had crawled into his lap and held his hands up. “I do, i’d, Mycoff? P’ease?”

Mycroft’s features softened as the worry over getting covered in wet, sticky suds left the forefront of his thoughts. “Of course,” he said, dipping the tiny plastic wand that came with the bottle into the bubble, and handed it to Sherlock. “Blow slowly, and you’ll get bigger bubbles!”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “Bigger bubb’as?” he whispered, as if the bubbles were tiny, living things that could be scared off by loud noises.

“Yeah,” John said; he was leaning back on his elbows, watching the two Holmes brothers with a warm, sentimental smile on his face….at least, he was, before getting a face-full of bubbles from Greg’s gun while the other man giggled mischievously. “I’m gonna take that away from you!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and then patted Sherlock’s hip. “C’mon, sweetheart…let’s see how big a bubble you can get!”

Sherlock grinned at him crookedly, then took a big, deep breathe…and ended up blowing a gust straight up, missing the bubble’s completely.

Mycroft pinched his lips together to keep from laughing as Sherlock stared at the bubble wand, brow furrowed, and puzzled at the lack of big, strawberry-scented bubbles that he’d been promised.

Mycroft coughed. “Try again.”

Sherlock tried again to the same affect, succeeding only in blowing his hair out of his face. He pouted; “Is’sit b’oken?” he asked, holding it up in Mycroft’s face.

“You’re too charming for words, but you know that already, don’t you,” Mycroft chuckled, and then blew a small, gently breath right into the bubble wand and produced a small, perfectly pink-tinted bubble.

Sherlock beamed as he watched the bubble float a short way towards him, and then gasped as it landed right on the tip of his nose…and pop.

He scrunched his face and giggled; “I’d po’b ‘ah me!”

Now Mycroft laughed out loud, and gathered his brother in a hug. “It did, it popped on you!” He kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose, and made a face. “They smell like strawberries, but they certainly don’t taste like them.”

“They’ don’d?”

“No.”

“Wha’d tas’e y’ike?”

“They taste like soap, silly goose…that’s what they are.”

Sherlock made a face; “B’eccch!”

“Then don’t drink them.”

“Don’ drink’a bubb’as!” Sherlock repeated, and waved the tiny wand back in Mycroft’s face. “Ah’gin, My’coff? Ma’ge bi’ bubb’as?”

Mycroft took Sherlock’s hand and kissed the back of it, despite being covered in soap.

“As many as you want, darling.”


	38. Prompt #12...Diapered pillow humping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a list of prompts posted on our blog.

“ _Be Ready._ ”

That was the last text John had sent right before getting off work. The last, and _only_ text he’d sent in response to several filthy and increasingly needy texts from one particularly needy little boy.

“ _Be Ready._ ”

John checked his phone again, just as he was leaving the clinic: no answer.

Good. That meant that previously idle hands were now busy.

John took his time getting home, a faint smirk permanently plastered onto his face (and his cock straining against the fly of his trousers).

He took his time going up the stoop.

He took his time climbing the stairs (and making as much noise as possible as he did so).

He could hear the heavy panting even before he made it to their landing.

He took his time opening the door (again, making as much noise as he could with fumbling and jingling his keys ~~on purpose~~ ).

All of that time and patience and straining and throbbing proved worth it as he opened the door…

And there was Sherlock in the middle of the sitting room floor, stripped down to nothing but the nappy John had left him in that morning…straddling John’s pillow and thrusting into it with enough force that John’s cock nearly busted though his zipper.

John was watching as Sherlock’s arse rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell in time with the grunting, when the salacious little whore looked up and noticed that he had an audience.

It didn’t stop him. If anything, he quickened his pace as he stared at John, slack-jawed and eyes glazed over, face and chest flushed with the effort.

Drool dribbled from the corner of Sherlock’s open, heaving mouth in a long, thin line from his bottom lip and began to pool on the floor below.

John bit his lip and reached down to squeeze his cock through his jeans.

“…Who’s ready for Daddy.”


	39. Prompt #20: Crying/embarrassment after wetting

“Here, now…what’s got you upset, monkey?” Sherlock asked, and reached out to tick John on the chin.

The smaller, surlier man knocked his hand away. “Don’t. Don’t call me that. Not right now.”

Now, this was a puzzle…John had been fine a few moments ago, when Sherlock had changed him. Which usually had the opposite effect on his mood and made him happier, just like any other soggy little tot–but not this time.

Well, Sherlock was always up for a good puzzle. He eyed the grumpy little man who was curled up on the other end of the couch, legs drawn up and arms folded over them as he glared at nothing in particular.

John had been in headspace earlier. And happy. Now, he was neither. The only thing that had happened in between, was a nappy change.

Sherlock turned to face him. “Did Daddy–I mean, did I do something wrong?”

John’s gaze flicked over to him briefly, then looked away again. “No,” he mumbled.

“John, if I did something to knock you out of headspace, then–”

“No,” John answered quickly, and then sighed. “No,” he said again, and this time uncurled from around himself. “No, I just…” he stopped, the words escaping him.

“…You just-?” Sherlock prodded.

“I just, I didn’t…” A blush crept across John’s cheeks. “I just…I didn’t mean to pee.”

“…What?”

“ I mean, I didn’t have to think about it this time. It just happened.” John stared at a loose threat sticking up from the couch cushion, and began to pick at it.

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment, then quickly pinched his lips together…but it was too late. A giggle broke free and John’s head snapped up; “What so funny?!”

“You,” Sherlock said, chuckling. “You, pouting over something like that.”

“And you wouldn’t!”

“It’s a compliment, really.”

John’s jaw dropped. “A compliment?!!!”

“Mm-hmm.” Sherlock stood up and, in a momentary loss of self-preservation, kissed John on the forehead. “Daddy was taking such good care of you that you genuinely forgot to be a big boy.”

John could only gape at him as Sherlock walked towards the kitchen. “Wait!” he said when he finally got his synapses working properly again, and got up to hurry after Sherlock . “Peeing myself is a compliment?!”

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock retrieved a sippy-cup from their cabinet. “Apple juice or banana milk?”

John crossed his arms. “ ‘m not thirsty.” 

“After that nappy? Yes you are. Juice or milk?”

John glared down at the floor and kicked at a bit of loose carpet around the door frame. “…Milk.”

Sherlock held the sippy-cup in one hand, waiting with that stupidly smug grin of his.

John sighed.

“Milk _please_ , Daddy.”


	40. Prompt #15: Wetting a dress/skirt/shorts (and this is gonna be hella nsfw just fyi)

“Good girl.”

Sherlock felt heat bloom across his cheeks as he blushed, despite his best efforts not to. He concentrated on the looping pattern of the carpet under his feet (while trying to ignore his reflection in the shiny, white, patent leather of his buckled shoes).

“A bit higher, love…let Uncle Greg get a good look at you.”

Sherlock’s belly gave a funny, albeit not unpleasant twist at the words. He obeyed, and lifted the ruffled hem of his pink tulle skirt. Underneath, his cock strained heavily against the thin fabric of his matching panties…already, there was a tiny, darkened spot where a bit of precum had leaked. 

Across the room, Greg tsk’ed; “Stained your knickers already, muffin? That’s not good. Come here.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly and walked towards Greg, the spot on his panties already growing. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That’s it, there’s a good girl,” Greg practically growled, his voice a constant rumble in Sherlock’s ears. “Just a little more, that’s it…show me how good you are.”

Sherlock grunted as he rocked against Greg’s thigh, straddled between his thighs. “I, I, I…” Sherlock breathed, unable to say or even think more than a string of barely comprehensible words. “G-good, yeah.”

“ ‘Yeah’, what?!”Greg reached back and swatted Sherlock’s panty-clad arse, and Sherlock sucked in a sharp gasp as the throbbing in his cock quickened to a pace that made him see stars. His grinding became frantic. “Y-yeah, _ungh_ , y-yes, yessssir!” he babbled.

Greg rumbled his approval as he kneaded Sherlock pert little asscheek in his hand roughly. “Better.” He then took both hands and suddenly held Sherlock’s waist, stilling him. 

Sherlock mewled pathetically…he’d been so _close_.

Greg squeezed, and Sherlock gasped again at the sharp pain from Greg’s fingers digging in to his flesh. 

“Now..,” Greg let one hand drift to Sherlock’s cock and play with it through the silky-soft garment, using one fingertip to trace the outline from his balls to the head, making Sherlock twitch–

  “…piss yourself.”

Sherlock moaned and let his head fall back as he began to pee, a thin dribble and quickly turning into a hot, thick flood as he let go what he’d been holding back since their game began.

Greg gritted his teeth as he watched his hand get coated in hot piss and yanked the waistband of Sherloc’s panties down, freeing his still-pissing cock and flinging droplets onto his own shirt. “Jesus fuck,” he groaned, and then took Sherlock’s cock in his hand and started to rub him off. “Filthy little girl, you’re Uncle Greg’s disgusting little piss princess, aren’t you?!”

Sherlock was wordless as he began to thrust in Greg’s grip. They were far from finished with their game. 

Uncle Greg had a piss kink. And Sherlock was all too eager to play along.


End file.
